


Between Pain and Boredom

by soap_boap



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Titanic Fusion, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Background Relationships, Bisexual Tony Stark, Bittersweet, Character Death, Classism, Draw Me Like One of Your French Girls, Emotional Hurt, Falling In Love, Fluff, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I just want thor to be happy, I promised romance and delivered family drama instead smh smh, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Lesbian Hela, Loki (Marvel) Does What He Wants, Loki (Marvel) Has Issues, Loki (Marvel) Needs a Hug, M/M, Minor Bruce Banner/Thor, Minor Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Multi, Mutual Pining, Odin's A+ Parenting (Marvel), Pansexual Loki, Past Child Abuse, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, RMS Titanic, References to Norse Religion & Lore, So Many Cameos, Suicidal Tendencies, Suicidal Thoughts, TCU (Titanic Cinematic Universe), The whole gang is here, Thor is a Good Bro (Marvel), Tony Stark Does What He Wants, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, loki has a death wish, oh yeah sigyn is here too, sibling angst, sigyn and hela are in love sorry I don't make the rules
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:21:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29106996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soap_boap/pseuds/soap_boap
Summary: “Life swings like a pendulum backward and forward between pain and boredom.”― Arthur SchopenhauerLoki was surprised by his own laughter. Stark chuckled, solidly throwing his cigarette overboard. If Loki was being honest, nothing about this felt real. Not their words, not their voices. It was like something out of a dream, the kind of euphoria that belonged strictly to adolescence. If the pendulum of life swung perpetually between pain and boredom, then this feeling was the drop between both certainties.It could only last for a moment.His foot slipped.AKA the Titanic AU no one asked for. When Loki climbs over the ship's stern he expects a brief rush of elation. It is the closest thing to freedom and chaos he can grasp. He doesn't expect to be saved, and he doesn't expect for this moment, this drop between pain and boredom, to be what permanently changes the course of his life, as well as the fate of his family.
Relationships: Loki/Tony Stark
Comments: 34
Kudos: 25





	1. Act 1, Scene 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [damagedpickle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/damagedpickle/gifts).



> This was part of my writing group's 2020 Christmas Exchange! It's over a month late but better late than never right? The "Titanic AU" prompt was initially a joke but uh we spun the wheel and this was what I got. And I took it very seriously. Very seriously. Even though I barely remember the movie. And when I started this I had only ever watched Infinity War and Endgame out of context. Yep! But no worries after much research, several sleepless nights spent reading fics, pouring through wiki articles, watching Thor Ragnorok with the homies "for the cause", and completely butchering Norse mythology, I can safely say I... tried my best? LMAO get ready guys this is gonna be a wild ride. 
> 
> But anyway Merry Christmas Molly! I can't believe you made me care about Loki Laufeyson aka rat man. This is my revenge. I have lost so much sleep. Infinity War is suddenly so so upsetting. I can't believe you've done this. Jkjk I love you and I really hope you enjoy! Happy reading baby :"))
> 
> Also! A quick shout out to @StrugglingGay <33 your encouragement means the world to me. Thank you for reading over my work and being my hype-man! Also thank you for inspiring the Thor/Bruce side-plot asashfjdsfhjdshjkds it was an incredibly fun addition to write! It was because of you the TCU (Titanic Cinematic Universe) was able to expand and be the beautiful mess it is today! Love you :DD
> 
> T/W for suicidal thoughts/tendencies (this will be consistent throughout most of the story. Please heed tag warnings and stay safe!)

Loki wouldn’t call himself suicidal, not technically. He didn’t want to die, nor did he frequent himself with thoughts of death; the fabled great beyond promised to all those who lived and breathed and suffered on this earth. His thoughts weren’t as striking, never as lethal. Rather, his thoughts were like whispers. They told of a cliff lodged high in the sky. A tightrope. Whispers coming from a devious tongue that he found oh so tempting. Always tempting. It was something he could make dangerous, if only he tried hard enough. He could toe the line, step too far, let his long legs dangle further and further from some far-off edge. He thought falling would be fun. It would be within and without his control. And it made him feel so terribly, so fantastically alive. It was the kind of irony he enjoyed: the closer he got to death the more alive he felt. The faster his blood pumped, the more his lungs screamed for breath. It gave him room to think clearly. 

Loki hurled his body forward, grinning as he gripped the edge of the railing, the wind clawing at his long, ruthless hair. Above him the night sky brimmed with a belly full of stars, and below him the sea crashed and howled, depraved and wild. He threw his head back and resisted the urge to laugh outright. These moments were his and his alone. Quiet in their private uproar, a secret statement. A what-if saved just for him. The ship, the mighty _Titanic_ as the newspapers called it, rocked with the momentum of his heart, the to-and-fro swinging of his legs. He was dressed in all black, just as his father and brother were. A mismatched set the three of them were. His father, short and broad and more severe than necessary. His brother, similar in stature but tall and blond and beaming so brightly his tailored clothes barely suited him. And finally him, lank and pale and, much like their father, chillingly grim when faced with finer society. And they were often faced with finer society. 

Families of great importance were gathered inside the ship, floating like chess pieces as they laughed and ate fine food and listened to classical music. Champagne glasses were tipped as they cheered, because the _Titanic_ was their great happiness. The main course for the full-bellied and beautiful. 

Glittering jewels stacked above rats on a spit.

Pressed against them he could barely breathe, but that was the reality of his entire life, because he wasn’t one of them, no matter how hard he tried to pretend. Loki was born draped in emerald; deep greens and silks so dark his skin was like milk, his hair a pool of black. But chained to his throat was a necklace, and it served to remind him that he wasn’t born to his mother and father. It was like a scar, found with him in the cold where he’d been buried far, far away, in the dirt and the mud and the wretched soil of his infancy. 

Still, his father considered him one of his children. So Loki played the part.

He was the youngest of three: himself, Thor, and Hela, their eldest sister. Thor wasn’t much like him, Loki thought. To him, Thor was born in gold and silver. He was an abrasive man, his eyes lightening, his hair a braided storm. His fingers were thick, his shoulders wide, and he was the most arrogant son of a bitch Loki had ever had the misfortune of knowing. Thor was loud, Thor spat when he talked, Thor had perfect teeth. When Thor laughed, the room rumbled with him. Loki rolled his eyes. 

His sister was different. Loki imagined Hela was born dripping in blood and roses. She was tall, taller than him and even taller than Thor. Her eyes were black, her lips full and blooming. Hela didn’t smile, she smirked. And Hela didn’t frown, she sneered. She was certainly beautiful, but in the same way one might find a knife beautiful, or a gun. Her hair was sleek like their mother’s, voice low like their father’s. Loki couldn’t claim he was comfortable around her, hadn’t been since they were children. Frankly, he wasn’t comfortable around Thor either. In Loki’s mind, between Thor and their father there was a bloodied hammer, a proud and brutish authority, and growing up it proved efficient in keeping everyone in their assembly lines. It loved them much like a whip or an arrow: piercingly and without mercy. 

Loki sucked in another frozen breath. It would all be over soon. He needed more of this small pocket of freedom he’d found here, on the vessel of dreams. He needed to be right on the edge, so close, too close. He was so curious. What would it be like if he fell? What if the ocean claimed him? He glanced behind him. The party hummed with a vibrancy he could barely understand. There was a certain ambience to it, something he found entirely sickening. Watching it was much like holding a snow globe, Loki thought. The sculptures within its glass dome were beautiful, yes, but Loki also knew it was only an imitation of life. That inside this enchanting realm, beside his family and glued right in the centre, lay rest his fate. 

Everything was laid out like it was God’s plan, and maybe it was.

Loki grimaced. He ran his fingers across the railing once more and, without thinking much of it, gave into temptation. He didn’t register his legs moving, not back inside but further up the decks, up wooden steps and climbing over the ship’s stern. It was euphoric, the shaking glee that soared high above his head and far beyond his body. Near-violent winds bit into his skin, and he could no longer breathe, no longer feel anything. He was so cold it burned, his body racking with shudders he had no control over. It was chaos, it was _life_ , it--

“What’re you doing?”

Loki barely registered the voice. 

“Hey, are you alright? Hey--”

“I’m fine,” Loki interrupted, his tone sharp. He twisted his head around and eyed the man approaching him. He was shorter than Loki, he could tell just by looking at him, but he was well-toned, his hair ruffled but tidy. Loki squinted. The man must have come from third-class. His clothing wasn’t as refined as Loki’s, his shoes dusty, his hands calloused and lightly scarred. But there was something in his eyes, a certain darkness, cool and reserved and glassy, that made Loki doubtful. It reminded him vaguely of his father, of someone who entered the world with purpose and intention and was always, viciously, above everyone else.

Someone born lucky. 

“You sure don’t look fine to me.”

Loki blinked and that unnerving image was gone. The man was frowning slightly, a laugh hidden somewhere inside his mouth. His eyes seemed larger too, softer even. Brown. Loki tilted his head, hair blowing into the endless sea. “I don’t know what you mean. There is nothing wrong with wanting a bit of fresh air.”

“You’re going to kill yourself! I think there’s a big difference between this,” he gestured towards Loki, who was testing his weight against the chains, “and needing air!” And in a spectacular effort to prove his point the man pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket.

It was then that Loki decided his initial assessment of him was wrong. The man was an idiot. 

“For your information,” Loki drawled, “I wasn’t planning on killing myself.” He smirked, eyeing the cigarette squeezed in between the man’s fingers. “It is unfortunate that you are, though.”

The man scrunched his eyebrows. He looked down at the cigarette, then back at Loki, then back again. Finally, he scowled. “This won’t kill you.”

“Inhaling smoke and letting it burn me inside out? No you’re right, I have nothing to worry about.”

Without looking away, the man reached back inside his pocket and wrapped his fingers around a delicate, silver lighter. It was more ornate than Loki was expecting, its colour reminding him of iron. “Scared of a little fire?”

Loki watched the man place the cigarette between his teeth, the planes of his hands shielding each attempted spark. “Never,” Loki said, transfixed. 

The man took a long drag. One, two, three seconds. Then he said, “What’s your name?”

“Loki Laufeyson.” The syllables sounded hard and heavy on his tongue. Almost foreign. He dared lean a little closer to the waves below. 

The man shook his head. “Nah.”

“No?”

“Ice prince.” The man was grinning now. 

Loki’s face contorted before he could stop himself. “Excuse me?”

The man leaned back against the railing himself. “You heard me.” 

“Well what’s your name, then?” 

“Tony. Tony Stark.”

Loki didn’t miss a beat. “Nice to meet you Anthony.”

“Oh fuck you.”

Loki was surprised by his own laughter. Stark chuckled, solidly throwing his cigarette overboard. If Loki was being honest, nothing about this felt real. Not their words, not their voices. It was like something out of a dream, the kind of euphoria that belonged strictly to adolescence. If the pendulum of life swung perpetually between pain and boredom, then this feeling was the drop between both certainties. 

It could only last for a moment. 

His foot slipped. 

He didn’t make a sound, only felt his eyes widen as that swinging ball and chain finally twisted back towards pain. 

“ _Oh shit!”_

A hand shot out and grabbed his arm. Loki looked up and saw Stark, face strained as he struggled to pull him up. For a moment Loki considered snickering and letting go. Wouldn’t it be funny? Loki would plummet and that abnormal conversation they shared would be his last. He wasn’t against it. Although as far as last words went _‘Anthony’_ wasn’t what he was expecting. 

“Just hold on. I’ve got you.”

The words were gentle. 

_I’ve got you._

What a strange thing to hear from someone he’d just met. 

With his free arm Loki reached for the railing. Stark pulled harder. Loki felt an arm wrap around his back. He pushed _hard_ against the railing, heaved his body up, and abruptly landed on Stark. 

“You’re ridiculously easy to pick up.”

It was enough to snap Loki out of whatever daze he’d fallen into. His family was still inside. He was onboard the _Titanic_ , the ship everyone in the world was scrambling to get a piece of. It was a statement, a show of wealth, a vanity project. And he had almost _died_. 

Fighting to keep his face placid and disinterested, Loki peeled himself from the man who just saved his life, like it was nothing at all. Apathy was morbidly easy to find if one tried hard enough. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered to himself. 

Stark sat up and pulled another cigarette from his pocket. “You wanna share this? I wasn’t gonna ask but since you almost died who gives a fuck? It’ll help, promise.”

Maybe he had a point. 

Stark flicked open his lighter once more. “Don’t think you’re suddenly some kind of superhero because of this,” Loki said, taking the cigarette and inhaling deeply. The burn was pleasant and travelled smoothly down the back of this throat. 

“Oh I wouldn’t dream of it, your highness.”

Loki leaned in and blew smoke into Stark’s face.

…

Thor was the first to come looking for him because of course he was. Loki had expected Stark to leave after their first cigarette but after he’d crushed it beneath his shoe, he’d pulled out another, then another, then another, and then three more after that. Loki didn’t complain. It turned out inhaling smoke and letting it burn him inside out was incredibly soothing for his nerves. He wore apathy like a blanket as Stark rambled beside him, and it allowed him time to focus on his next course of action. He liked his makeshift thrills, his private mischief. Those stolen moments were the only times he didn’t have to think. But now it was over, and he needed to fully prepare himself for performance. Each cigarette pulled another layer of apathy from him, another fabrication. It was necessary if he wished to please his father once he returned to his side.

Smoking was the perfect solution. 

“There you are brother!” 

Loki grimaced. Thor’s eyes were blazing, even in the darkness. Loki didn’t understand, he had nothing to be excited about. 

Nonetheless playtime was over. Loki stood and took one last drag, in and then out. He turned to Stark. “Well now that I’ve been found I best take my leave. Thank you for the company, Anthony.”

But before Stark could get a word out, Thor was smacking both hands onto Loki’s shoulders. “What’s happened to you?”

“What?” Loki hissed. Thor often forgot how strong he was, and it _hurt_. 

“I’ve never seen you look so… unkempt.”

Stark snorted. “And here I was thinking suicide attempts were commonplace for him.”

Thor stiffened and Loki braced himself for what was sure to be a healthy dose of idiocy and Thor’s usual self-righteousness. Thor was a fool, a dangerous one certainly, but a fool nonetheless.

“Suicide? Loki you weren’t seriously--”

“Don’t be stupid. I merely slipped. I have no intention of ending my life--”

Thor’s eyes turned watery. “ _Ending your life?_ ”

“I’m _fine._ Don’t fuss.” Loki picked Thor’s fingers off his shoulders one by one. Thor had become softer as of late. Weaker, in Loki’s opinion. His fussing had become more frequent ever since he married six months ago, and it would’ve been pleasant if it wasn’t greatly exaggerated. What Thor got out of it, Loki wasn’t entirely sure, but if he wanted to be pestered, he’d go to his mother for God’s sake.

Thor didn’t seem to agree. “Don’t fuss, he says! Can you believe this?” He turned to Stark, regarding him as if they were old friends. Thor had always been charming, but casual friendliness was also a recent addition to his newfound temperament. It even bled into his interactions with the lower class, it seemed. 

Stark leaned forward, like he was telling a secret. “And guess who had to save him?”

Thor’s concern quickly turned into a smile so toothy it had to hurt. “Then you’re the hero of the hour!”

“Sure am. I’m Tony Stark, by the way.” He reached out his hand and Thor took it eagerly, giving it a firm shake before he pulled him up entirely. 

Loki swallowed the groan in his throat. “I thought we agreed you weren’t a superhero, Stark.”

“Come on, I am a little bit,” Stark said, a lopsided grin on his face. Loki looked between Thor and Stark and couldn’t help but feel confused again. No one could best Thor in outward pleasantness, but Stark was a pretty good contender. The two slipped into easy, casual conversation, their words warm and lazy, like opening a window to let the breeze in, sipping lemonade and dozing off as the sun shone through the curtains. It was too calm, too peaceful. Their lines didn’t seem calculated at all, the flow between them sounding less like speech and more like music. It was so unlike the stilted, practiced dialogue Loki was used to. Thor had this effect on people, of course, but it seemed Stark did too. It was irksome. There had to be a catch, Loki thought. Someone had to be lying, or perhaps manipulating for advantage. Then again, maybe this was simply what lower class socialising was like. Senseless, dull, and uncomplicated.

Loki ignored the memory of Stark making him laugh suddenly and without consequence, stubbornly burying the fact that that was what made him slip.

“Shall we head back inside then?” Thor said, drawing Loki’s attention back to him. “Father wanted you to meet someone, you know.”

Loki tilted his head slightly to the side. Raised a delicate eyebrow. He stopped his eyes from widening, forbade his mouth from dropping. He even succeeded in stopping his fingers from twitching. These were all tells. Thor probably wouldn’t be able to pick up on them anyway, but Loki felt better knowing he was invisible. This was simply another meeting with another important figure. Perhaps a socialite, or a new husband for Hela. Maybe a new business partner. Loki needed to look natural, calm. To an outsider, take Stark, this was just another occurrence. Of course Loki had someone new to meet. Of course his father needed him now. Of course Loki would be told. It wasn’t that his father didn’t love him, it was just that Loki was never called on. He wasn’t as beautiful as Thor for instance, or as charming. He wasn’t brawny, he wasn’t forthcoming. He wasn’t even technically his father’s. But his father loved him. Love was his concern for Loki’s appearance. How he’d brushed his hair as a child, dressed him in clothes so pretty they must have been made by fairies. Love was survival; a child is only the child of its father if it is an intricate part of his glorious kingdom. Loki was as essential as a sword, and just as cutting. He needed to be. And as far as Stark or anyone else was concerned, Loki didn’t have to try at all. 

“You are welcome to accompany us at any time Stark,” Thor said, guiding Loki away. “You mentioned you were dining in first-class, did you not?”

Stark nodded in affirmation and this time Loki let slip a small gape. He was sure Stark was from third-class. He’d never seen anyone so _common_ among their people before. Although, something about Stark begged to be further examined. His beard was neatly cropped, and his smile sometimes didn’t reach his eyes. His speech was carefree and honest, like Thor’s, and yet something about him struck Loki as false. He found Stark’s eyes again and saw his father. Except Stark smiled, Stark laughed and jeered and was gentle, in a way. It left Loki feeling unsettled as he and his brother walked away. He had nothing to gain from these observations, but he observed anyway, because although he barely knew the man who’d shared his cigarettes, and called him moronic nicknames, and had reached for his arm without a second thought, Loki could almost convince himself that he did, as if he knew the whole damn story already.


	2. Act 1, Scene 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shenanigans with the rich folk

Hela was standing next to him when he first met Sigyn. After withstanding Thor’s continued fussing, which included raking through Loki’s knotted hair and trying to hide the fresh creases in his pants, they’d returned to their table in the centre of the dining hall. Thor had been all over him, worried their father would not take kindly to Loki’s newfound unkemptness, no matter the circumstances. If they were anyone else Loki would’ve found their antics amusing. Thor straightening Loki’s collar, checking his temperature, giving him puppy eyes, and Loki struggling to escape from his caring grip, like a cat trying to jump from its owner’s arms. They were two fully grown men and yet somehow Loki felt like he was fourteen again, sharing a bedroom with his goof of a seventeen-year-old brother. At this rate Loki was near-convinced Thor was incapable of aging. 

The dining hall was pearly white, with polished wooden floors and crystal chandeliers that cast the space in a golden haze. His mother sat across from him, a picture of aloof, dreamlike grace. Thor was socialising two tables away, their father was nowhere to be seen, and Hela was leaning against Loki’s chair, fingers teasing a stubborn curl tucked behind his ear. She was far more subtle in showing her affection than Thor at least, although her petting only made him more acutely aware of his own growing boredom. 

Then Sigyn appeared and it was like Loki’s entire periphery was enveloped by mist, something reminiscent of the space between consciousness and sleep. She brought with her a heavy yet clarifying awareness, because when Loki caught sight of his father directing her towards him and Hela he knew, he just _knew_ , that this was his fate. The way his father was holding her hand, the still, perfectly practiced frown on her face, her bare shoulders: it made Loki want to run.

Hela hummed to herself but said nothing. The finger in his hair tightened ever so slightly. 

His father stopped in front of Loki and gifted him a rare smile. “My son,” he said, “I’d like to introduce you to Sigyn. Her father is an important associate of mine.” 

Loki shifted his eyes to her. She was angel-like in demeanour, her skin a soft brown, eyes like spoonfuls of honey. Her black hair curled all the way down her spine and her dress was cream-coloured and made of a light, untouchable fabric. And then there was the ring. It coiled up her middle finger, the head of the snake lunging at the knuckle and squeezing tight against the bone. 

Loki wondered if it hurt.

He felt his fingers drag up his knee harshly. Bile seared the back of his throat. 

But he took her hand anyway, and carefully pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “A pleasure.”

She said nothing. 

“I have accepted her father’s proposal,” his father announced without warning. “You shall be wed within two months.”

Deep inside Loki something burned, an old furnace waiting to be fed. He thought it animalistic, this thing in his chest that spat venom and threatened violence; a rage he’d been holding his whole life, it seemed. 

He knew how to suffocate it. It’d been with him long enough.

Under his grip it softened and turned to tar, and soon enough it was just another wasted moment of anger to add to the heap. He reminded himself that he understood his father’s position. Sigyn was a necessary play for power and Loki was unwed. It was important Loki married someone significant, like Hela and Thor already had. Mostly Thor. Hela’s husbands always wound-up dead. Loki smiled to himself. Their father had given up arranging her marriages after her fifth husband’s corpse was accompanied by a small, crumpled note reading, ‘ _Daddy, marry me off again and I’ll leave his head in your oven.’_ It was signed with a heart. The police never found that little piece of evidence but then again, they were never in control to begin with. Thor’s love life was far less morbid. His marriage happened quietly, with their father’s hand on his shoulder and the world nodding its assent. There was no grand love affair, no bloodthirsty rebellion. Thor’s hair had been cut clean and short, the clothes from his boyhood stripped and replaced. He didn’t smile at his wedding. He didn’t laugh. They barely even spoke.

Loki imagined his union with Sigyn would be much the same.

“Undoubtedly,” was all he could bring himself to say. 

“My father has a gift for you,” Sigyn said, and the hardness of her voice surprised him. “It’ll cement our union.” She waved a hand and a young man with a box stood from a few tables over, his frame slight and his hair slicked back. The man manoeuvred through the crowd, his footsteps loud to Loki’s ears. He vaguely wondered if he’d be given a ring. 

“Thank you,” Sigyn muttered when the man reached them. Loki felt Hela’s hand on his knee. The box looked to be made of mahogany, with delicate gold spirals decorating its aged surface. Loki could smell it from where he sat, reminiscent of his grandfather’s library and expensive perfumes. The man gave a curt bow and allowed Sigyn to remove the box’s creaking lid. Something about it all seemed so archaic to Loki, like the box was lost in time. 

Sigyn placed the lid on the table and with slow, careful hands, lifted a crown cradled in velvet and silk. The crown was thin and made of silver, its three delicate arches pinned with sapphires and carved snakes. He thought of her ring. Pressed against the crown, it was clear the two were a matched set. 

Loki caught Sigyn’s eye and realised he was meant to stand up. He pulled Hela’s hand from his knee, dragging his chair back and stepping towards his fiancée. She was much smaller than him, he noticed uncomfortably. 

He bent down and heard her voice soft in his ear. “From my forefathers to me I grace you with my lineage, my blood, and my loyalty.” She masked it well, but Loki could hear the brokenness in her tone. When the crown touched his head, he felt nothing but overwhelming cold. It suited him well. 

Loki straightened, his eyes wavering for just a moment across the grand dining hall. Faraway, two men were sitting at the bar and drinking scotch in the low-light. The man on the right was laughing quietly to himself, shaking his head as he sipped his drink idly. The man on the left, however, was looking directly at him, and even from all that distance away Loki could see how his eyes widened. 

Tony Stark, as he called himself, looked like he was staring Death in the face, like he’d seen him wandering his garden, or perhaps his bedroom, and didn’t know how to stop ice from gripping the back of his neck at the sight of him. Loki smiled. It was fitting that the man who’d saved his life was the one to bear witness to his second death. Maybe he was realising he shouldn’t have saved him at all, that it would have been a mercy to let him fall and be claimed by a different, more natural, cold.

Loki always did enjoy irony. 

… 

Thor returned sometime later. He didn’t pay much attention to the crown, or to Sigyn, and Loki wondered if he’d always known. It was highly likely. Their father told Thor everything and Thor was the one to call for him. Loki sipped his wine. Somehow Thor’s indifference irritated him more than his usual antics. 

Thor nudged him. “Hey isn’t that Stark?” He was eyeing the bar. 

Loki rested his cheek in his palm. “Perhaps.”

“We should invite him to dine with us. I am very grateful to him for saving you.”

Fresh memories flashed in his mind. Desperate cold, all-consuming elation, a black sea. A stranger gripping his arm. “It wasn’t a big deal,” Loki sighed. 

“Nonsense. Father would have a fit if he found out.”

“Because he’d already arranged to marry me off.” Loki couldn’t keep the spite from his voice. He blamed the wine. “You knew, didn’t you?” He was tempted to throw Thor to the ground. Grab him by his thick braid and _twist_. It was what the bastard deserved. Thor’s relentless joy never warmed Loki like it warmed everyone else, and he suspected it was because he knew him so well. They were raised back-to-back, hand in hand. Slept in the same cot, shared a piano: all things lost to the chambers of time. Of course Loki knew him. And to Loki, knowing Thor meant wanting to hurt him. 

After all, that little room they once shared no longer existed. 

“Yes, I knew,” Thor said, voice strangely flat. “It was going to happen eventually, Loki.” 

Loki itched for a cigarette. “You could have warned me.”

Thor winced. “I’m going to ask Stark to dine with us.”

Loki wrapped his fingers around his wrist. “Thor, no--”

Thor’s eyes were soft as he pulled himself free. “Excuse me.”

He pushed his chair back and walked away. Loki watched him go, as he always did. Loki imagined following him and grabbing the back of his shirt, like a child clinging to its parent’s leg. It was a small, private want. _I don’t want you to go, I don’t want you to leave me behind again_ , that’s what it said. 

Loki buried it. If he did not think about it then it did not exist. It was easier to want to hurt him anyway. 

Distantly, he could hear Thor’s rumbling voice, “Your friend is welcome to join us too. To whom do I owe the pleasure?”

Another voice. “Steve Rogers.” 

Loki turned and saw three men approach. His brother, Tony Stark, and another man with several badges pinned to his coat. A veteran soldier, Loki thought distantly. There was a marked beauty to him, but also an underlying darkness Loki recognised immediately. It was in the lines of his skin, the shadows under his eyes, the stoic curve of his mouth. Loki noted the watch latched to his wrist. Its gleam gave him away. This man was first-class in all the ways Stark was not. 

“It’s good to see you’re alive and well, Mr. Laufeyson,” Stark said, placing a hand on his shoulder. Loki stiffened. “It has been so very long.”

“Lifetimes, Mr. Stark,” Loki said coldly. And in a way, it was true. “This is my sister, my mother, and my father.” He gestured around the table until his eyes finally settled on Sigyn. He took a silent breath and calmly said, “And this is my fiancée, Sigyn.” 

Sigyn smiled. It was sweet, Loki noticed, with a small chill. Sweet and genuine and more real than any she’d worn that night. Did everyone look at Stark that way? Loki closed his eyes. It had to do with his social standing, he needed to remember that. Stark was simple, humble, and harmless. Politeness was a necessity. Like a firm hand.

“It’s lovely to meet you, miss.” 

Loki opened his eyes. Stark’s hand lay scarred and frayed next to his own. Skin split and crooked like minerals. Like rock. And Loki didn’t know why, but suddenly he couldn’t look away. 

But it was all quickly swallowed by his father, who spoke with a sharp, discomforted tongue. “As pleased as I am to make your acquaintance, I must say I find it improper to dine with strangers.” He drummed his fingers. A countdown. One, two, three, four. “How did you come to meet these men, Thor?”

Loki pinched his nose. Thor should have seen this coming. 

“Mr. Stark and Mr. Rogers are our friends, father,” Thor said gently. But for all his kindness, Loki recognised the firmness in his eyes, the forced warmth in his voice. It was a silent warning. “Must we question all whom we share a meal with? Why not settle for a smile and some fine ale?”

Thor really was a fool, Loki thought bitterly. To have the _gall_ to speak out of turn and to - what did he say? - enjoy a hot meal? Drink their cups dry and dance and squeal like common people do? They were far beyond that. Their father would never stand for it. As his loyal and obedient son, Thor should never have even entertained the thought. 

But Thor didn’t seem to want to think at all. It was a new kind of madness, and it disturbed Loki, not because he was sentimental or caring, but because he couldn’t understand _why._ His hair had grown since his wedding day; and he’d grown more wild. He smiled more. Laughed a little louder. Tried to talk to his siblings. 

Loki wanted to punch a wall. 

It hardly mattered. After a moment, their father nodded and poured them each a fresh glass of ale, and as Loki watched he fought the urge to kick himself because he should have known. Thor always got his way. He was untouchable, invincible, immortal. That was just how he was, and how he always would be. 

Loki sunk a little in his chair. It was going to be a long night. 

“Apologies for my husband’s … hesitancy,” their mother began. “My name is Frigga.” Rogers took her pale hand in his, ducking his head to plant a quick kiss on the back of her hand. His mother smiled, that same soft smile she only gave her children. 

“A pleasure to meet you, ma’am.” 

Loki rolled his eyes and Thor kicked him from under the table, his face giving nothing away. Loki shot him a look that said: _What? Look at this fool._ Thor clenched his jaw and Loki snickered. Paladin types were always so easy to make fun of. It was their only redeeming quality, in Loki’s opinion. 

“So you’re a soldier then?” Hela said finally, crossing her fingers under her chin. Her smirk was smooth, and her eyes sparkled, and Loki caught himself wondering how Rogers would feel if he knew his heroics were being questioned by a murderer. 

“Somewhat. I’m a Captain,” he said, American accent warm and golden. 

His sister picked up on it. “Mr. Captain America, then.”

“Well that’s just ridiculous,” Rogers said, flashy smile a touch confused. 

“But no less true,” Hela said, leaning back against Loki’s shoulder. Loki pretended not to notice. He received another kick from Thor.

“It must be hard,” their mother cut in. Loki could sense Hela sour beside him.

“In a way,” Rogers said. “I’ve never liked being away from home.”

“Because you missed us, you old sap,” Stark said, teasing. 

“You’ve known each other for a long time, then?” Thor asked.

Rogers' shoulders loosened at the sound of Thor’s voice, and soon the music of their conversation returned, that age-old pleasantness only Thor could bring out. Neither Loki or Hela were capable. “Since childhood. I was neighbours with Tony’s fiancée. Those two--”

“And Rhodey, the bastard.”

Rogers nodded, his laughter nostalgic. “Fine then, you _three_ were always bothering me. To be fair I had a nice house.”

“And a nice mother.”

Rogers choked on his ale, his face reddening. “ _Tony!_ ” he half-screeched. 

Hela leaned forward again, her voice an exhale. “I can imagine.”

Rogers spluttered a second time and Loki would have laughed at his discomfort if his father hadn’t darkened. He could say nothing against Hela though, and they all knew it. Much like Thor, that woman was damn near untouchable. 

But it didn’t stop Thor from laughing. He was like a child -- hand landing on his stomach, tears pooling in his eyes. His brightness was only strengthened by their father’s growing distaste, like the two were the difference between night and day. 

“So if you’ve been gone for so long, Mr. Rogers, how did you two ever find each other in London?” Thor practically bounced in his seat. 

Rogers pointed his fork at Thor. “It was entirely coincidental. I was in London with the intention of enjoying a nice, _quiet_ , voyage home--” 

“Admit it cap, life is more fun with me around,” Stark quipped, smirking. 

Rogers ignored him. “And as it turns out, Mr. Stark was also in town.”

“How come?” Thor pressed, turning to Stark. 

“I was working with another friend of mine.” Stark paused and then, like it was an afterthought, said, “Bruce Banner.”

Thor’s face froze. His smile didn’t drop, his eyes did not stop beaming, but Loki saw him freeze, like a gun was aimed between his eyes and his brain was plummeting into a thousand scenarios at once. Loki wondered if his heart had stopped. Why? He slipped his gaze back to Stark, who was continuing on like the name _Bruce Banner_ meant no more to him than it did to Loki: three syllables off the tongue and completely meaningless. The conversation had abandoned that name, moving on without either Thor or Loki. Thor, who had wrung himself from the flow of it, stuck on something beyond Loki, and Loki himself, who had jumped after him. He reached without knowing why, eyeing his brother again. He hadn’t moved, his expression holding on so strong Loki wanted to shake him. 

“So what’s your story, Mr. Stark?”

His mother’s gentle voice caught his attention, as well as Thor’s apparently. Stark chewed his bread thoughtfully. “Don’t like living in the past, Mrs. Odinson. The days before now make for a long and depressing story, and frankly I think it would be far more interesting to ask me what I want my story to be. Right now, I am aboard the _Titanic_ with you fine people. Won a lucky ticket and came here with my good friend, Mr. Rogers.” He clapped Rogers’ back. 

“Easy,” Rogers warned, his tone light and teasing.

Stark continued. “Tomorrow I’ll be walking free, with the waves under my feet and the stars hanging high above my head. Then eventually, I’ll be in New York. City of dreams. You remember my name; I plan to change the world from there.”

Despite his preoccupation with Thor, it startled a laugh out of Loki. “And how do you plan on changing the world, Mr. Stark?”

“Creation, Mr. Laufeyson. I like building, drawing, inventing.”

“You’re a mechanic.”

“I prefer scientific genius.”

“And here I thought you were humble.”

He grinned. “A horrible mistake, really.”

“So you come from nothing,” his father interjected, eyes sharp.

“In a way,” Stark said. His grin did not drop. 

“How mysterious,” Hela said, cackling at the look on their father’s face. “Apologies father, I so often forget your grievances aren’t meant to be amusing.”

Sigyn gasped, hand flying to her mouth to hide her giggling. Loki had almost forgotten she was with them. He frowned and wondered if her eyes always creased at the corners when she laughed, the sound chattering and chattering and chattering. 

He’d never be able to make her this happy on his own. Not even for a moment. He didn’t need to be told. Didn’t need to live by her side for years and years to know. 

Then Hela leaned back in her chair and winked at her.

Loki’s frown deepened. He didn’t think Hela would be able to either, for anyone. They were alike in that way. Loki had never seen much mirth from his sister, at least not without a decent amount of pain to balance things out. But as he watched Hela grow curiously calm, her cheeks rosy as her expression drew into a vision of happiness, like she was eight years old again, Loki was reminded of that eternal pendulum. There was that drop again, the cosmic ball drifting away from pain as it reached into the bottomless pit of time. It was like a sigh, a brief moment of respite for the weary, wicked, and damned. 

“Well I cannot resist any longer,” Thor announced suddenly, standing up. “I desperately want to dance.”

Loki knew what this was. Thor had always found safety in a crowd, where people piled up in the dozens to talk to him and he could escape whatever it was he was feeling. People to Thor were what cigarettes were to Loki and Stark. Mind-numbing. Loki was tempted to call him out on it, to laugh and bring up _Bruce Banner_ and watch as his brother’s face twitched and fell apart. Whatever the significance was, the name was surely a weapon to him now. Yet Loki found himself unable to say or do anything. He tried to open his mouth, to spit some poison and watch the chaos unfurl before his eyes, but he just _couldn’t_. Thor’s face had been too blank, too ghostly, and still, like something was rotting inside him and he was desperate to bury it far, far away. Loki had seen it, and maybe Thor knew that, but no one else was meant to. No one else could. No one else knew him like Loki did, wasn’t that the truth of it? Something so completely and utterly doubtless it might as well be sewn into the sky? 

So, without warning and all at once, Loki finally spoke. “I bet one-hundred pounds I can dance better than you, brother.” 

Thor laughed and it was shocked, spirited, and entirely true. Loki felt his face heat up, not expecting something so completely childish to slip unbidden from his mouth. “We shall let Stark be the judge of that,” Thor said, and the smile he shot Loki melted into something grateful. 

Loki cursed himself for his stupidity but stood and returned the crown to its box anyway, joining his brother’s side with an exasperated roll of his eyes.

It hardly mattered. 

Thor was finally calm and back to himself, and that was enough to make Loki’s mouth curve. Enough to settle his heart. 

And in the end, that was all he needed. 

… 

Loki had only danced with his fiancée for all of ten minutes before his sister came to steal her away. Their dancing had been wooden, their faces equally stony and tired. Loki had tried to be kind to her, but he just didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to tell her he was sorry, that he didn’t know what to do or how to stop this overwhelming need to _run, run, run._

Then Hela swept in. 

She placed her hands on Sigyn’s shoulders, effectively pulling her from Loki’s grip and spinning her round to face her. Sigyn yelped, her face turning pink as she allowed Hela to hold her waist and lift her up from the ground. 

“I’m taking your princess, dear brother,” Hela spat, tone impish and sniggering. 

Loki smiled. “Believe me, if she didn’t want to be stolen, she’d never let you.” He didn’t know why he spoke as if he knew her, but the words poured easily from his mouth and tasted just as sweet. They may as well be true. 

Sigyn’s face fell. “Wait, Loki--”

He shook his head. “Please, dear. Go have fun.”

She nodded with a wide smile. He wasn’t used to being kind, but small graces he would allow. 

“If she’s going then I believe it's my turn next,” Stark said, emerging from the crowd and away from the women he’d been amusing. “You did say I’d be the judge of your stuffy dancing.”

Loki scoffed. “I assure you nothing could be more stuffy than Thor trying to dance. The fool always skipped lessons.”

“ _Skipping lessons?_ The oaf! How dare he?” Stark gasped. 

“Silence,” Loki seethed. 

“Impossible,” Stark said, hand clasping Loki’s shoulder. Loki stilled. The room grew tight around them. There were too many people. But Stark kept speaking smoothly, as if the entire world only encompassed the few feet between them. A whole planet spanning between breaths. “Many before you have tried and failed to shut me up. Believe me, it cannot be done.” 

“Like your Captain?” Loki asked, trying not to focus on the eyes swirling all around them in endless, abhorrent circles. He did not see; he did not see. 

Stark made a show of waving his other hand. “Tried and failed, Mr. Laufeyson. These days he only tries to stop me from doing horrendously stupid things.”

“And how successful is he?”

Stark pulled away sharply, only to draw Loki back in just as quickly as he dipped him in one smooth, dangerous swoop. “I’m a lost cause, your highness.”

Loki imagined all those eyes were plastered to the ceiling. Down the chandelier they crawled, just to peer closer. To tear them apart. And yet despite the tightness in his throat, he couldn’t stop himself from playing along. It was a back-and-forth mischief he hadn’t indulged in for a long time. Like muscle memory. He thought it had died.

Loki swallowed a laugh. “You dance pretty well for third-class,” he drawled, glowering. 

Stark pulled him up again. “Oh yeah? For first-class your movements aren’t nearly as pristine as they should be.” He grinned. “You’d fit right in with my third-class rats, though.”

“If I were you, I’d stop talking, Mr. Stark.”

“Why? Scared I’m gonna tell you your brother dances better? He did want the next dance--”

“No. I’m scared for your reputation.” He grasped Stark’s shirt, leaned in so close he saw his pupils widen a fraction, before promptly kicking him to the side and tripping him over. Stark stumbled, cursing loudly as he barrelled straight into a small crowd of older ladies. One of them shrieked, her powdered face contorting as her cocktail spilled down her petticoat. Stark gaped up at her, face paling as hers reddened, sweat drenching her high collar. 

Loki stepped in with all the grace he’d adopted from his mother. “Apologies, ladies. My poor friend here is simply a clumsy fool. I’d pay him no mind--”

“Oh you son of a _bitch_.” Stark leapt from the floor without sparing a look for the woman. He simply grabbed Loki and twirled him back towards himself, his closeness edging towards some kind of unspoken line. Almost too far. Almost. To his credit, one of the ladies laughed. 

They must look drunk. Yes, to the world they had drunk their fill, burned holes in their throats and more, and were now plagued with an unnatural softness for their fellow man. And that was fine, because it was a quick fix. Nothing permanent, nothing to worry about. Because they must have wives. All men were in search of a wife, their snouts long and pointed high in the air. And all those eyes, they were waiting for the moment they’d fly in, those decent girls, each groomed to know exactly how to glue their joyless pieces back together again. Pour a bucket of mortar over his shame; bury his beating heart, and the stink of sweat and laughter and nerves, with cement. They would be fixed, the pair of them. And then they’d be dragged to another poker game, their mouths full of coins as those girls grovelled like dogs and waited and waited and waited for it all to be over. To finally go to bed.

That was what they were thinking, wasn’t it?

Loki grinned and ignored the restlessness growing inside him. “I see no problem Stark. I did warn you.”

“Are you always like this?”

“Most certainly. Although I do try my absolute hardest for you, Anthony.”

“I should’ve let you drown,” Stark grumbled.

This time, Loki let himself laugh. Vaguely, he wondered if his father was watching. The thought made his hair stand on end, but he couldn’t stop. “Your mercy is unfortunate. Next time you must promise to let me go.”

Stark gave him a disapproving look, then said, “I _really_ want to see you dance in third-class.”

“I-- What?” Loki stuttered.

“Bring your brother.”

“And why would I do that?” Loki complained. 

If Stark heard his distaste, he ignored it. “Because first-class is stuffy and boring and if you come you won’t need to worry about your mediocre dancing.”

“Why bring Thor?” 

Stark frowned. “I owe him a dance. Besides, he’s a nice guy … You really don’t like him, do you?”

“Whatever gave you that idea, Stark?”

A pause. That was all it took for that veil of dark seriousness to creep over Stark’s eyes again. A careful stare, an attempt to look beyond Loki’s sneer and dissect whatever he may find underneath. It made Loki want to fidget, want to tear himself from his skin. 

“I’ll do it for a price.”

A narrowing of the eyes. “I already saved your life today.”

“That doesn’t count. We can bring Thor if you promise not to limit his drinking.”

Stark’s look vanished as quickly as it came. “Clearly you don’t know me at all. I have never been anyone’s impulse control.”

Loki pulled up a veil of his own: undisturbed, bold, and in power. “I wish to see him suffer,” he said, allowing any earlier, perceivable squirming to melt away, his stance cool and collected. 

“Creepy. You have a deal.”

… 

When Loki politely requested to steal Thor away from the small crowd he was entertaining, showing off his best smile as he looped his arm through his, he hadn’t expected him to look quite so devious about it. It was like they were playing a game. Like they were going to spike the punch, or perhaps embarrass each other in front of families they so desperately needed to impress. They used to do that sort of thing when they were younger. Loki had always liked taking things to their natural extreme, because no single thrill was ever enough. Lighting tablecloths on fire, setting snakes loose in their mother’s sparkling ballroom, jumping Thor and stabbing him with a butter knife. Normal kid stuff. Thor was always the lesser of two evils when it came to those things. Loki supposed it was because he always ended up getting hurt. He never refused Loki though, even now. 

“Is this a new game, Loki?” Thor muttered as they walked away, chuckle barely contained.

“Must you always think the worst of me?” 

Thor cut right through him. “Where are you taking me?”

Loki smirked. “I’m still deciding. Stark wants to go down to third-class.”

“Father isn’t going to like that.” Thor sounded all too pleased by that fact. 

“Most certainly.” Loki directed them towards the grand doors where Stark was waiting. He was leaning against the wall and looking at his nails, one leg crossed over the ankle. Loki forced himself not to stare. Those eyes were still everywhere, they both knew that. “If we leave, father will know. We have no valid excuse.”

Thor nodded, some plan forming in his mind. “You have enlisted me for a grand and daring escape,” he said brazenly. Even now, married, respected, powerful and dangerous all at once, Thor was still the world’s most keen enabler. 

“So how do you suggest we get to third-class without angering father?” Loki said quietly, pushing them through skirts and petticoats and dozens upon dozens of expensive faces and words and circles of evil. 

Thor’s easy smile turned into a near-crazed grin. “We should do get help.”

“No. No way. We are not doing get help.” Loki should have expected this, really. It was _Thor_ after all.

Thor’s face dropped. “Why not? You love get help.”

Loki’s shoulders sagged. “It’s humiliating!”

“No, it's great! It works every time.”

“Thor I’m not twelve. You can’t just _throw me_ \--”

Thor slipped his arm from Loki’s and threw it over his shoulders. “I’m Thor Odinson. Of course I can.”

“I’m going to murder you in your sleep,” Loki growled, but allowed Thor to drag him away all the same. 

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he answered, and Loki could hear the mirth in his voice. It sounded like childhood.

And as Loki went limp in his brother’s arms, he began to think that time was an illusion. He must have fallen through a looking glass, found some kind of magic backdoor. A door that cut through time, past all confusion, doubt, and madness. He even had proof, because as he heard those old, stupid words fly from his brother’s mouth -- _Get help! My brother is dying!_ \-- and they crashed through the doors and barrelled down the stairs, Loki was positive everything in his life had regressed. And it had happened so quickly, so pathetically and miraculously, that it scared him. It was like everything that had already happened had yet to happen at all, because all this was too silly and meaningless and god, they _weren’t children anymore._ It was beyond ridiculous, and it seemed mad to think that time, like a river, was linear and flowed endlessly, never stopping and never looking back. How could that be, when Stark was laughing at them, cunningly following behind and shaking his head in disbelief? 

Loki stuck his tongue out at him.

Stark mouthed three words:

_Very mature, Loki._

Loki wasn’t sure what angered him more: Stark, Thor, or the heat that threatened to spill across his entire face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right now the plan is to post once a week so stay tuned :>


	3. Act 1, Scene 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I try to cram as many cameos as I can because I thought my friends would find it funny
> 
> Anyway welcome back to this week's Titanic shenanigans!

Third-class was wooden, dark, and full of smoke. The ships’ engine could be felt through the floorboards, like the heartbeat of some great, slumbering beast, and it made the chambers warm. And it was because of this that Loki found himself shedding his suit jacket the second he, Thor, and Stark stumbled into the room. He unclipped the buttons holding together his sleeve cuffs, and even went so far as to undo the top two buttons of his collar. He combed his fingers through his hair, desperate to lift some weight off his neck. It was sweaty, sticky, and stank of beer and cheap wine, boxes of which were littered in every corner of the room. Worse still, across the floors and pressed up against the walls were people upon people upon people. There was barely room for them all. Squirming bodies yelling atrocities and screaming laughter, men slapping each other on the back, small children dancing in circles, their shoes long lost to the rolling adrenalin of their unpractised, careless movement.

It was chaos.

Loki had never been a stranger to chaos, in fact he actively sought it out, but here, in this clustered, murky place, he realised for the first time that he’d never seen it untethered. Now it lingered in the air, gripped every person, and Loki was surprised to find it was not violent. Instead, it was horribly endearing, no matter how foul the heat was. 

“You need a rubber band,” Stark observed, shifting his weight against the back of some discarded chair. 

Loki tugged his hair, groaning, “If I had my way, I’d cut it off.”

Stark shrugged. “Give me a knife and I’ll do it now.”

“Don’t you dare,” Thor interrupted, grabbing Loki’s shoulder. Loki didn’t pull away, although he scowled at the sternness. He hadn’t seen this kind of severity from his brother since he’d begun preparing for marriage. Loki wanted to spit out the thoughts, the memories. Wanted to see them land. “I’ll just give you mine, brother.”

“Hold on,” Stark said and then, rather strangely, bent down to untie his left shoe. He pulled the lace free and offered it to Loki. “This should work,” he said simply. 

“That’s--”

“Clever? Innovative?” Incredibly, Stark grinned. 

“Disgusting,” Loki said, taking the black lace and tying his hair back with it anyway.

Despite his initial protests, Thor was clearly amused. He shook his head, freeing himself from his suit jacket as well. He hadn’t quite recovered from whatever seriousness had overtaken him, but he kept smiling regardless. It annoyed Loki greatly, and yet something inside him urged him not to take it personally. A persistent stream of _don’t, don’t, don’t_ , _it’s not worth it._

“Damn he’s protective,” Stark noted as they watched Thor step away into the crowd. 

Loki raised an eyebrow. “Thor?” 

Stark nodded, rolling his shoulders as Loki stared after his brother’s retreating figure. Thor fussed and prodded and was overbearing at the worst of times, but protective? Protective implied caring and he wasn’t sure Thor cared at all. He wouldn’t have expected him to. Certainly, Thor liked Loki, especially when they were children, but so much about Thor had changed and so much about him wasn’t even real. All kindness was for advantage, all heroics a performance. Thor said all the right things and it was because he’d been a child when honour was first ripped from his throat. He was a prince aching to fill the empty halls of their house so that he could be crowned king, so that he could leave Loki behind. That was how he’d survived all this time, because everything Thor ever did was for their father and why? Because Thor was _his_ son. Anything else was survived only by Thor’s sentiment, and their childhood had been left to rot a long time ago. Centuries, it seemed. So there was no room for love and care and being _protective._ Loki resented all of it because it was all a goddamn _lie._ Loki would know, he was the liesmith, as his father had so brutally called him when he was eight years old. He wasn’t wrong. 

And yet Thor blended in beautifully anyway. In just his dress shirt and plain slacks, his hair messy and natural, Thor looked so honestly happy it made Loki want to throw up. People clapped, laughed, and played their smiling peasant music. A group of children pulled at Thor’s hands. He towered over them, his handsome face splitting in two as their little voices giggled and demanded he dance with them. And in the low, warm lighting, dust kicked into the air as Thor gave in, dancing with anyone who would have him, it was like he belonged there. 

Loki just watched.

“You look like a witch, standing there sulking like that,” Stark blurted out. Loki turned sharply, but when he caught sight of Stark he looked just as mortified as Loki felt. After a few strangled seconds, Stark offered him his hand. “Come on,” was all he said. 

Loki glared at his outstretched palm. “I thought my dancing was mediocre.”

“And I thought I said I wanted to see you dance in third-class.”

Loki drew back. “I don’t belong here--”

“Shut up. Just shut up for a second.”

“Anthony--”

“ _Loki._ ”

It was enough to make him shut his mouth. 

“I don’t know you and you don’t know me,” Stark said, the words spilling like he barely knew what he was saying either. He sounded confident though, and that was good enough. “The last few hours have been really fucking weird for me too. I’m not good with words or feelings or whatever but …” he hesitated, then, “You thought it was all going to end tonight and then it _didn’t_. So why not dance?”

It wasn’t what Loki was expecting. 

He laughed. 

He laughed and laughed and laughed, until his belly was aching and he had to double over, his body shaking with the force of it. Distantly, he was aware Stark was laughing too, hand planted over his eyes. “That was stupid, wasn’t it? Tell me that was the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard.”

“You’re an idiot Tony Stark,” Loki said, wiping his eyes. He peeled Stark’s hand from his eyes. “Take me away, if you must.”

And take him away he did, pulling him into that same crowd and singing as if he knew all the words. The dancing was different from before. Where first-class was performative and graceful, breathtaking in its timelessness and majesty, third-class was hurried, clumsy and entirely free. It was like everyone in the room was part of one entity, each person a nerve, a joint, a muscle. They shifted and moved and swung around the room like fire, reaching up so far and so suddenly Loki thought the world might burst. And no one would mind because _this_ was chaos, and this was the closest they would ever get to freedom. 

They dangled over the edge of life and death but without that fatal cold Loki had grown so accustomed to. 

_“Shit!”_

It was Thor’s voice. 

Loki sucked in a breath and pulled away from Stark, the music continuing to glide over him as he hurried across the room. Loki wasn’t sure what had possessed him, he just knew he had to find Thor, had to make sure he was okay. And that was just _fine_ wasn’t it? Because it could be anything, anything at all, from a spider to a knife, and Loki would still always run to his side. He resented it, growling and snapping and swearing he _didn’t care_ , but he followed it all the same.

Stark followed close behind, keeping a steady grip on Loki’s bicep so as not to lose him. Thor had long since disappeared from the crowd apparently, since it took stepping towards the bar for Loki to finally spot his brother laughing that same hearty laugh, his impeccable dress shirt splattered with what Loki could only assume was alcohol, if he were judging by the smell. He cringed. How well that was going to wash out he wasn’t sure. 

“Calm down it’s alright,” Loki heard Thor say as he slapped the back of the man seated next to him. “I don’t take any offense.” The man was still shaking his head, face flushed as he raked a hand through his short, blond hair. Loki noticed an arrow was tattooed across his bare arm, the weapon cutting through him like a scorch mark. Next to him sat a woman in all black, her thin neck littered with similar markings. Spiders cascaded down the line of her throat like a waterfall, swirling and pinching her skin in delicate arches. She was laughing, Loki realised as he and Stark got closer, her head tipped back as she slung an arm over the man’s shoulder. The more red he got, the more she laughed. 

“Oh my god,” Stark said, walking past Loki and throwing both arms over the strangers. “If it isn’t my favourite rats!”

The man grunted, before turning and grumbling, “Shut the fuck up, Tony.”

The woman groaned too, twisting in her chair and kicking Stark away. “You’re calling me a rat?” she said dangerously. “You’re the one with the goatee.”

The man caught Stark’s arm, smile spreading slowly across his face. “Careful, Nat hides knives in her clothes.”

“I bet she does,” Stark said, grin so wide the corners of his eyes crinkled.

Loki cleared his throat. 

Stark spun around, clapping his hands. Something glinted in his eyes, something that wasn’t there before. An ember, or a spark. Something cheeky and cunning. Loki braced himself.

“These,” Stark announced, gesturing to his companions, “are my creepy assassin friends.”

“For the last time I’ve never killed anybody!” The woman, Nat apparently, scoffed, rolling her eyes. “I’m Natasha Romanoff. And this idiot is Clint Barton.”

The man raised a hand, face still flushed. 

Stark nudged Loki with his elbow. “She’s Russian. Enough said.”

Thor laughed into his beer. “You really are something else, aren’t you Tony Stark?” 

“He’s an idiot but he’s ours,” Clint said, and although his arms were crossed, his figure and tattoos making him look bigger and meaner than he actually was, he looked terribly fond. 

“When did you get so soft Clint?” Stark asked, mock-horror painting his face. “It’s gross.”

Barton said nothing, just punched Stark lightly in the side. 

“You’re not the favourite though,” Romanoff said, scooting closer. “Where’s Steve?”

Stark made a show of tilting his head to the ceiling and sighing loudly. “Of course you want America’s golden child. Never good enough on my own, am I?”

Romanoff grinned slyly, shaking her head no. 

“Typical. He’s still hanging with the bourgeoisie. Being handsome and charming and showing off his ass. All that good Steve stuff.”

Romanoff gave him a pointed look. Loki supposed it was surprising Stark knew how to pronounce French words. “Very funny,” she said. “Seems you managed to kidnap a few rich kids on your way here anyway.” 

“Willingly kidnapped,” Thor supplied, clapping Stark on the shoulder. “Mr. Barton, Lady Romanoff, it is a pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry your first impression of me had to be like this,” he showed off his still dripping shirt, looking all too content with this outcome. 

“See that Clint?” Romanoff said under her breath, “I’m a _lady_.”

Barton simply sagged comfortably against her side, murmuring something in her ear. She breathed out a quiet laugh, and it wasn’t long until their casual intimacy began to make Loki uneasy. Hela had never been gentle with any of her husbands, and Loki had never seen Thor touch his wife beyond the kiss they’d shared on his wedding day. It wasn’t an unusual thing. Not even his own mother and father were that close, especially not physically. Connection and warmth were things reserved for the bedroom, far away from the public eye. But Stark’s friends seemed unaware of that unsettling presence, of all the world’s eyes. Barton, with his head on Romanoff’s shoulder, his hand closed over hers and rubbing small circles in the space between her thumb and forefinger. Her cheek pillowed on the crown of his head, almost protectively, like she knew he was tired and needed to look out for him, take care of him. And her eyes, so sharp and cold and biting, seemed soft only for him, like he alone was able to warm her.

Stark didn’t seem to notice. “Of course I kidnapped them,” he said, “Needed to show ice prince over here a good time.” Stark jerked a thumb towards Loki. He quickly crossed his arms, shooting Stark a glare so hot he hoped it burned. 

Barton smothered a laugh into the edge of Romanoff’s shoulder, and she shot her own loving glare at Stark, picking up her drink and taking a long, slow swig. Thor beamed and pulled Stark to his side, talking animatedly with him again. Loki found himself staring out into the crowd, tuning out their conversation and focusing solely on the hum of noise all around him. The smell of alcohol and sweat, the continued music and chanting. He breathed it in and thought. And after sorting through abstract thought after abstract thought, he found himself agreeing with what Thor had said earlier. He’d only known Stark for one night but as the minutes fell and turned into hours Loki became more curious. Every time he thought he had him pegged, his clever eyes pinning him and getting an exact picture, everything in focus, everything clear, Stark seemed to move, jolt, and dip beyond his expectations. Stark was blurred and paradoxical. A smile on his face one minute and darkness in his eyes the next. Loki had never met someone so stiflingly confusing, and the more he asked, the more he prodded and observed and listened, the more Stark seemed entirely unclear to him. He only wanted to grasp something, chase the thrill of his chattering, the untapped workings of his mind. Maybe then this restlessness would end. Because although Loki thought Stark an anomaly, intuition warned him that Stark had already unearthed everything rotting and hidden within him, like he knew exactly where to look. It was in his eyes, Loki thought. And how he talked to people. Like he could see inside someone and know the exact nature of their heart. And perhaps Loki could say the same for himself. Because beyond every question, and the burning curiosity, and shrouded unknown; when Loki thought of Stark, he felt a familiar pull, like warm hands hauling someone away from the ice. Like maybe he did know him. 

He really was something else. 

… 

They had been drinking steadily for over an hour, chatting amicably between the five of them as person after person stopped to talk to Stark. Loki was fairly certain everyone in third-class must know him, because the longer they stayed the more people began to crowd around him. Shake his hand, clap his shoulder, plant kisses on his cheek. Many even asked for Rogers, like Romanoff had. It was unsettling. Neither Loki or Thor were recognised or sought after, and that at least offered its own comfort. They may as well have been from another world entirely, with how invisible they seemed to everyone who approached Stark. 

“Mr. Stark!” A voice yelled, the words cracking at the edges. 

Stumbling forward and snapping red braces, the kid called out again. His shirt was loose with a few buttons missing, his socks and shoes mismatched, and littered down his neck were a trail of blazing hickeys. He must have only been sixteen, maybe seventeen, his frame slight and his face smooth, milky, and boyish, like he was still shaking off his baby feathers. 

He was also drunk out of his mind. 

“Peter! For fuck’s sake who let you drink?” Stark said sharply, running to catch the kid as he slid off the edge of the counter. 

“Sorry sir!” Peter squeaked, long limbs sinking in Stark’s grip. “Didn’t think you’d come to see us.” 

Stark pulled back, both eyebrows raised, sardonic smile curling. “Can’t stand pretentious bastards, kid.”

Peter cackled and threw his arms around Stark’s neck. And like a group of drunken sailors, the people surrounding them began to whoop, stamping their feet and raising their glasses high in the air. Thor raised his fist in solidarity and Loki wrapped an arm around his shoulder, kicking the back of his leg and stealing his drink. Thor gaped as he took a long, scorching gulp. Rum. Loki felt it stream past the corners of his lips and run down his neck. It buzzed all the way down to his fingers and further still to his toes. The swirling heat helped tie them to the crowd, the cheering, the shared distaste for the upper-class fluttering high above them. It helped Loki forget that he was meant to be one of them. 

Stark turned to the crowd, patting Peter’s head absentmindedly. “Which one of you fucks was supposed to supervise him?” 

Romanoff stood from her stool, finally detangling herself from Barton to help drag Peter back to the bar. “ _Relax_ Tony. He’s basically an adult.” 

Stark raked both hands through his hair, exasperated. “He’s just a kid! If his aunt finds out I let this happen she’s gonna slit my throat!” Staggering, he marched up to Loki, squeezing his shoulders and leaning in close to whisper, “That woman is not to be messed with.” Loki could smell the alcohol on his breath, the heavy, sour weight of it. He scrunched his nose and closed his hand over the juncture between Stark’s shoulder and neck. He creeped closer until they were eye-level and breathed, “Scared?” 

“Of Aunt May? Terrified.”

Loki batted him away, his head heavy and light at the same time. Everything seemed too bright and too dark, so much so that it made him laugh at nothing. Stark pushed off his shoulders, taking careful steps backwards. He didn’t take his eyes off Loki. Loki stared him down, daring him to turn away, like it was all a game. 

When Stark did pull his eyes away it was to fill an empty goblet with water. Still, it was as if he’d never stopped staring at all. His scarred hands twisted the knob of the tap, the water gushing down not entirely clear. Almost overflowing. It tipped as Stark carried it to Peter, helping him sip from it. The water spilled down his sleeve and past a watch Loki hadn’t noticed before. It ran down in sharp stripes, dripping to the floor.

Loki couldn’t stop watching, quietly observing every movement, every shift. 

“He’s been having a good time with that cute bar girl all night,” Barton said casually, patting Peter on the back. Peter grew pink, cheeks blooming into roses as water dribbled from his lips. He coughed, hand flying to cradle the back of his neck. 

Stark’s mouth hung open. “Really? A girl?”

“Why is that so hard to believe?” Peter said, smiling despite himself. 

Barton leaned forward, hands braced on the stool. “Looks like he takes after you.” 

“Oh fuck off Clint he’s nothing like me. Look at that dopey grin!” Stark sighed and buried his head in his hands. “It’s too late to save him now. Taken by love so soon… I’m not ready to let him go!” He was shaking Peter now, sobbing fake tears into his arm. 

Peter sniggered, trying to push Stark away. “Let go of me, old man!”

“Never! I just can’t!” 

Loki edged closer to Stark, hovering next to him like a shadow. In all his life he’d never seen a grown man behave this way. And it went beyond how he spoke to the kid like he was family, like smothering him was all he could possibly do. Because Stark had that same easy familiarity with everyone. They all flocked to him, turned to him, laughed with him. Loki imagined a string, gold spun from a wheel. Stark had it wrapped around his fingers, a web of abstract connections. With a tug he was capable of pulling them all in, every single person on earth. 

“What have you been doing all night anyway?” Peter said, pointing a drunken finger at Stark. 

His expression turned neutral and grey. Loki almost wanted to laugh. What was there to tell? He’d saved a madman from plummeting to his death, a man who’d happily scaled the railings of the _Titanic_ like he had nothing to lose. Leaning out towards the sea and sighing as the winds screamed and hissed all around him. The rest was a haze to Loki. He’d returned to the world, trying to swallow that damning hour on the docks as he kissed Sigyn’s knuckles, wore a crown that wasn’t his, ate his dinner in silence. He wondered how it all looked to Stark, what he’d been thinking. What he still thought, right now as he opened his mouth to speak. 

“Much the same as you, in a way,” Stark said, finally lifting his head to look at Loki. 

Loki searched his eyes frantically, breath short, fists clenching. His eyebrows drew together. It felt like anger. And he searched and searched for the lie in his eyes because it _was_ a lie. Stark hadn’t picked anyone up. Hadn’t received kisses like a splattering of paint to the neck. No one had warmed him, held him. And Loki didn’t know why the lie made him shake but it did. Initially he thought it was shame, because he knew his story was disturbing. How Stark had met him wasn’t worth mentioning, not even in jest. They both knew that. 

But then slowly, he began to think it was the indication that Stark wanted to pick _him_ up. A mockery, certainly. Loki knew his type. Stark had women clinging to him, listening to every word he said, and Loki thought he must starve for attention if his fiancée waiting in America wasn’t enough to stop him. No, nothing could stop men like Stark from feeding. 

Men like that didn’t lust for other men. 

Loki wanted to curl in on himself and tear his heart from his ribcage. It was beating too hard. It begged him to remember old intimacy, the impressions of it hanging from his neck and crying, crying. They were broken moments, split across his life and barely remembered unless he reached for them, sighing into the night as he slid his eyes closed and caught them in his fist. When he was younger, he’d crawl into bed with men, women, anyone. Didn’t matter, didn’t matter. Loki only saw faded outlines. Candlelight. A partner cradling his cheek, running a palm down his chest. Sinking into darkness and tasting a sweetness he could never speak of again. 

He forced himself to shake it off. Stark wasn’t indicating that. It was just a simple lie told to a drunk kid. Loki breathed in deeply and smiled, the curve of it cold and aching. 

“Life is always fun Pete, if you know where to find it,” Stark said, looking away. Peter sipped his water again, failing to hide his embarrassment. 

A glass was placed harshly between them. Loki flinched. 

“You realise you’re an idiot, don’t you?”

Loki turned to face the man standing behind the counter. He had stinging eyes. That was the first thing Loki noticed. Then his frown, sewn so deeply into his jaw it pulled his skin and sharpened his bones. His hair was greying but neat nonetheless, curls arching over his forehead and softening the stress collected in every line of his temperament. He held himself stiffly, collecting Peter’s empty goblet and wiping it clean with a rag. 

“Leave me alone, Strange,” Tony grumbled, taking the glass the man had placed onto the table and throwing it down his throat. “Scotch? No need to be so generous.”

“Less generosity and more a necessity, I’d say,” Strange said smoothly, expression toeing the line between irritation and apathy. He shifted his eyes to Loki, and they softened considerably. He offered him a tired eye roll, tilting his head towards Stark with a drained smile. Loki shrugged and Strange poured him a new drink.

“Hang in there,” he muttered.

“Will do,” Loki said, taking the scotch with a nod.

… 

Loki decided he didn’t need shoes. They were suffocating, and the more he looked at them, the more he soured at how polished they were, how they still gleamed even after the dancing, the drinking, the shouting. He wanted to see them get dirty, to show muddied, scratched shoes to his father and laugh at his horror. So he undid the laces, only for him to realise he didn’t need socks either because really, who the fuck needed socks? 

He’d lost count of how many drinks he’d had overall, but he was vaguely certain that he’d downed at least three more after Strange’s scotch. It was easy to drink, easy to wait until that familiar burn turned warm and gentle, no longer feeling the scotch and the cider and the rum wash down his throat. He slid down the counter and onto the floor, his back dragging all the way down until his shirt riled up. He wasn’t cold. He wanted the shirt to rip. He rolled his sleeves up to the elbows, tugging hard and clumsily. Tear, tear, tear, he thought. It was thin enough. It would be so terribly easy… 

Someone sat beside him. Loki knew who it was. 

“No shoes?” Stark asked. 

“No,” he hummed, voice low. He flexed his foot, pale skin glowing against dark mahogany. “Don’t I have pretty feet?” 

“I’m sure you get them from your mother,” Stark noted, and Loki punched him weakly. 

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the commotion blurring all around them. It was slower now and less crowded. All chatter a distant murmur. A few couples were slow dancing, arms wrapped around each other’s necks and softly whispering as the lights turned down and everything became obscured in shadows. 

Thor’s laughter boomed loudly across the room, but even he was far away. If Loki were sober, he’d yell at him to shut up, but he wasn’t sober and he was slipping deeper into some kind of lucid dreaming, where everything was fading and yet so startlingly clear. Because only now did he realise he never wanted Thor to stop talking. He found it soothing, knowing he was there, that he was fine and that he was happy. He closed his eyes and listened, allowing himself a moment to breathe. Thor sounded like sunlight. 

Loki dropped his head onto Stark’s shoulder, and he could feel him smile in his hair. 

“You see that guy over there?” Stark murmured. Loki opened his eyes, straining to see who he was referring to. His eyes landed on a man standing towards the far end of the room, muttering darkly to a small group. Loki snorted. He was wearing layer after layer of brightly coloured fabrics, each article wrapping around his thin frame like antique rugs. Blue, then red, then gold.

“He manages prostitutes,” Stark said dramatically. 

“He looks ridiculous,” Loki said, unimpressed. 

“They call him the Grandmaster.”

“And you’re telling me this because?”

“Wanna show off who I know.”

“You know everyone, don’t you?” Loki sighed. Stark smelled like rich cologne and motor oil. Scotch too. Loki buried himself in it. 

“Basically. Like see that guy?” Stark gestured towards another man. A little girl was snoring softly in his lap, drool smearing everywhere. He was petting her hair, rubbing up and down her back. He was wearing a checked shirt. Loki watched with a sudden melancholy, focusing on his hands, his sleeves. Pressed clean and so modest Loki wouldn’t have seen him if he hadn’t been pointed out to him. “He’s an entomologist,” Stark continued, “travelled all over the world and still pissed himself when he first met Steve. Huge fan apparently.”

Loki tore his eyes away. His head inclined towards the bar. A woman he’d never seen before was talking animatedly to Thor. She sat cross-legged on the counter, one hand leaning back, the other twisted around a bottle. “And her?” 

“Valkyrie. She’s got one hell of a mouth on her.”

“Do you think she fancies my brother?”

Stark barked out a laugh. “Trust me, you have nothing to worry about.” He winked, but whatever he was implying was lost on Loki. He turned away again, eyes searching. The room swam around him, sloshing colours disjointed and sparking. 

“And those two?” he whispered after a moment. In the middle of the room a man was spinning his wife, her feet swinging off the ground as he held her close. He planted a kiss to her stomach. She tilted her head back and laughed, red hair dancing down her back. He pulled her down, mouthing ticklish kisses to her neck and shoulder. 

Stark sounded like he wanted to vomit. “Wanda and Vision. They’ve been married for-fucking-ever. Totally gross, don’t wanna know about it.”

“Strange names.”

“Tell me about it…” 

But Loki could barely hear him; attention now drawn to the very back of the room. He smirked. “Looks like your Peter has some company.”

Stark sat up sharply, eyes widening as he watched a young girl press a hand to Peter’s chest. Her hair was a mess of dark curls, each pulled back into an uneven knot behind her head. A few hung free, clinging to her jaw. Peter brushed them aside, thumb tracing her chin all the way up to the shell of her ear. 

“I don’t know who that is,” Stark spluttered. The girl leaned in and Peter caught her neck. “Oh _gross_ ,” Stark groaned, the back of his head hitting the counter as he dragged a hand over his eyes. 

Loki laughed loudly, smirk sliding into a grin. “Young love, Stark.”

“I said I don’t wanna know about it!”

Loki pulled away, regarding Stark curiously. “You’re doing the hand thing again.”

Stark glared through his fingers. “What?”

“The thing where you cover your face because you’re embarrassed.”

“I’m not embarrassed! Kids can do what they want. I don’t care.” And with what looked like a great amount of effort, Stark lowered his hand. His cheeks were stained red.

“Something appears to be burning, although I can’t possibly imagine what.” 

Stark growled and went to grab his arm, but he fell short when his eyes landed on Loki’s neck. “Hey, is that a necklace?” he asked curiously. 

Loki nodded slowly, fingers tracing the chain hooked to his throat. Loki had forgotten he was wearing it. Usually he didn’t have to bother remembering. No one ever noticed it anyway, or bothered to ask if they did. And yet here it rested on his naked collarbones, suddenly exposed. Questioned, even. His thumb dropped to touch the red stone half hidden under his shirt.

“Very pretty. Where’d you get it?”

Loki pressed the stone. It dug into his skin, icy and burning all at once. “That’s a secret. Tell me something good and I’ll tell you about it.” 

Stark crossed his arms. Loki kept his head held high, eyes narrow and discerning. Normally he wouldn’t have offered Stark anything at all, but there was something riveting about having power over him. To watch him fidget uncomfortably, eyes darting between the necklace and Loki’s taunting glare.

Stark sighed. “Fine.”

Loki’s lips pulled back into a lazy smile. He crossed his legs, shifting closer than necessary. Stark’s discomfort hung thick in the air, like tar. He wouldn’t stop fidgeting. Good. It was a game now, these small deals passed between them like secret notes. And Loki was _winning._ “Scared?” he breathed. 

“Never,” Stark answered, swivelling to mirror Loki’s position. The fidgeting stopped. 

Loki chose his approach in an instant. “So what’s your story, Mr. Stark?” 

Stark raised an eyebrow. “Your mother already asked me that.”

“You didn’t answer her. I want an answer. You were in London but what about before then?”

Stark answered immediately. “France.”

“What were--” 

“Nope,” Stark cut in, forefinger pressed against his lips. “My turn. It's an exchange, right?”

Loki glowered. That was just like Stark, wasn’t it? Reclaiming control like it was a ball being tossed between them. Simple work. 

“Where’d you get the necklace?” Stark repeated. 

“I have no idea. Tell me about France,” Loki pressed. 

Stark looked puzzled, then simply shrugged and said, “Okay. It was incredible. Do you want to know what makes a place worth remembering, your highness?” Loki raised an eyebrow. “ _Les jolies femmes_ ,” Stark whispered. 

Loki slapped his arm and Stark cackled. “I was there for about six months. If you asked me why I couldn’t tell you. I’ve been travelling all over Europe. Have been for the last few years.”

“What were you doing?” 

Surprisingly, Stark allowed the second question. “Making connections, mostly.” 

He paused. Eyes growing clouded as he regarded Loki again, his earlier joking melting into something small and tentative. “Can I tell you something?” he asked. Loki nodded. 

“When I was younger, all I wanted was to see the world. That’s the problem with ambition. It makes you want to seize life and see where it takes you. Like a riptide. I’ve always had my machinations in my head, Loki. _Machines._ When I was nine, I took apart a typewriter just because I wanted to know how it worked. And as I took it apart, cogs and gears and wires, bit by bit by bit, I realised it was like magic. Magic rooted in reality and logic. It was … it was like finding a piece of myself in something beyond my body.” He grinned, eyes shining. “My first love.”

Loki tilted his head. “You fell in love with a machine?”

“We’re all machines, Loki,” he said, like it was obvious, like anyone in the world would have said that. Loki shook his head, dazed and dumbfounded all at once.

Stark continued. “I managed to make it type the letter _e_ automatically. Over and over on the page. Just a series of blots. You can only imagine what Steve thought when I snuck it into his house. He thought it was the funniest thing in the world. I mean, he was twelve at the time. _And_ I’d jumped the fence and climbed through his window just to smuggle it in … And he was mostly laughing at me, ‘cause it wouldn’t stop. I tried to fix it; I swear to god. It was my dad’s only typewriter. So there we sat, me and Steve, him handing me tools and me panicking because I was spilling ink all over his mother’s carpet. But I only jammed it further. It typed _e_ so fast and so violently every page we fed it was soaked in minutes. Rhodey thought we ought to name it. Said it was _our_ magic typewriter and it deserved a goddamn name.”

“What did you name it?”

“J.A.R.V.I.S. Stands for _Just A Rather Very Intelligent System._ ”

Loki snorted. “An intelligent system who knew his alphabet.”

“Especially his vowels.”

They burst into quiet laughter, and Loki looked at his companion with utter amazement. He was like a little kid when he spoke like that, like his childhood had never really ended. He was still building and breaking his silly machines, still wandering aimlessly across the world because Tony Stark did what he wanted. 

He kept rambling. “Look around, Loki. First there were boats, then cars, now _planes_? Now I know I’m prone to dramatics but when I tell you I needed to get in on this, to fully _realise_ the possibility of the world and its minds? Well, I can assure you it is no joke.” 

Stark dug his hand into his suit jacket then, and pulled out a small, leatherbound book. He passed it to Loki. Hesitantly, Loki opened it to its first page. It smelled strongly of coffee, the corners curled up yellowed, and in big, scrawled letters it read: _TONY STARK’S MARVELOUS ADVENTURES IN MAGIC AND MACHINERY (05/29/1908)._ Five years ago, Loki noted. He flicked forward. Sketches and unintelligible notes overlapped across the pages. A car with wings, an automatic typewriter that could respond both to written instruction and spoken command labelled _better J.A.R.V.I.S.?_ , and a mask messily painted red and gold. 

They were the imaginings of a child, Loki thought quietly. 

Then the sketches changed. 

Loki watched as Stark’s mad inventions transformed into a fascination for the human form. Men and women alike, some smiling, some candid, some sad. _Amélie, Odette, Fleur._ Face, torso, back. _Marcel, Jean, Hugo._ Chest, legs, knees. Dozens of people drawn from a variety of angles. Hands and feet. Dresses and shoes and hats. And Loki kept flicking, reading passages in French as the date crawled closer to the present, like he was letting a music box run. A murmured yearning for a time and place Loki would never know.

He poured through the book for several minutes, starving for each acute detail, the notes so personal and specific it made him shiver. It felt private. Like he was digging further than he should. Each recollection tender and rough under his fingers. Until finally, Loki reached the last page. 

There was only one drawing, and it was bracketed by a handful of notes written in English: _Bruce Banner. A man of science! He likes chocolate. I enjoy his company. His dog is a beast! (02/03/1912)._ February. Two months ago. He regarded the portrait again. 

Banner was shyly smiling, his glasses round and balancing on soft, tired cheeks. A long, oversized lab coat hung from his shoulders, and underneath he was wearing a plum, pinstripe vest. Loki scrutinised the drawing over and over. Thor knew Banner, so logically Loki must as well. But the more he glared at it, the more he became unsure. He grimaced. “Who is this?”

“Out of all the people I’ve met across my travels you decide to focus on Brucie?”

Loki snapped the book shut. “He’s the only name you’ve bothered mentioning.”

“Tell me something good and I’ll tell you about him.” 

Loki chewed the inside of his cheek before finally relenting. He clung to the necklace, heart in his throat. “I’ve had this ever since I was born. They found me with it.”

“Found?”

Loki twitched. He turned the stone over in his hands. “I was born in Scandinavia. I remember nothing.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth, so he tried again. “No, that’s not right. I remember the cold. There was snow everywhere, as far as you could see, and the woodlands were so dark I thought everything had burned. Like charcoal, or ash. And I was cold. Wrapped in furs as I turned to ice.”

“How old were you?”

Loki blinked. “Four. I think. I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Stark yawned, throwing an arm around Loki. The smell of scotch hadn’t faded. “I don’t know. You seem sad. Hurt.”

“Tell me about Banner.”

Stark nodded against him. “Okay.” 

“I met Bruce a couple of months ago. I was sitting by my window, sketching anyone and anything I found interesting. Wrote some notes. The usual. Just another grey, smoky Monday. Had a coffee with me. Then my pencil snapped so I swung a leg down from the windowsill, thinking _one of these days I really need to clean that desk up_. But as it turns out, the window hadn’t been shut properly and I knocked my coffee over. Now I was quite a few stories up, so I stuck my head out and watched as it fell right on this guy’s head. The mug was completely smashed. My favourite mug! It was tragic, really.”

Loki nudged him with his shoulder, brows pinching together. “And the man?”

“It was horrible. I ran downstairs and honest-to-god thought I’d killed him. Cause of death? Scorching hot coffee and unfortunate head trauma. But eventually he stirred. So I dragged him inside, laughing my head off ‘cause he wouldn’t stop calling me a bastard.” 

“And that was Banner?”

“Sure was. Don't worry, he forgave me quickly. No one can resist my charms.”

“Certainly.”

Stark opened the book to its last page again, looking at his drawing fondly. “He ended up being just the connection I needed. He was very interested in my work. And he got on with Steve. Always a plus, in my book. So he promised that after I’d settled in America, he’d write to me and eventually he’d come and visit. Maybe even stay if something took off. He seemed eager to leave London.”

Loki perked up at that. “Why so eager?”

Stark shrugged. “Can’t explain it. He always seemed so lost. And tired. He was a pleasant fellow don’t get me wrong he just … seemed so unsure and alone. I understand that.”

Loki doubted that. Everyone swarmed to Stark, so much so that he never seemed to be alone. If Loki wasn’t at his side then Rogers was, and if not Rogers then Peter or Barton or Romanoff. Even Strange seemed fond of him, if only in an exasperated kind of way. Loki wondered how’d he’d gotten to know so many people. When and where? For how long? Loki imagined Stark had dozens of little books like the one he’d shown him tonight. Each detailing eras in Stark’s life Loki would never be able to grasp onto. Travels in Italy, Germany, perhaps even Russia. Maybe he’d already seen Scandinavia, too. Maybe even the whole world. And all the people he’d met along the way, the endless, unknown faces, each he’d kept stored in his dozens of books, within thousands of pages. A man like that could never perceive loneliness, it wasn’t possible. 

Loki stared at the book, seeing nothing. Then his eyes slid further down, almost closing. The scars etched into Stark’s hands were white, circling around his fingers and across the back of his hands like worms. Loki had barely noticed them before, but now, sitting in the dim room and nodding off against the shoulder of someone he barely knew, they seemed incredibly bright. Iridescent and foul. “How’d you get those?” he mumbled without thinking, tapping Stark’s skin. 

He felt Stark stiffen beside him. He didn’t say a word, just sat completely still, barely breathing. Loki almost wanted to snap at him, ask him what was wrong, press him to give up the information. Make a new deal. But something inside him wilted at the idea of making Stark more uncomfortable. Before it was amusing. Game-playing always had been. But groggily, Loki knew Stark could have pushed harder tonight if he’d wanted to, could’ve crossed Loki’s boundaries and asked what he was doing on the docks, or insisted on knowing more about his adoption, or Scandinavia, or even Thor. But he didn’t. He’d had all the power in the world and never abused it once. So Loki sighed and said, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” The sentiment was foreign on his tongue. 

Stark exhaled. “Thank you.”

Loki decided then it was time to go. Too much alcohol, he thought. After making him happier it only made him soft. Too soft. He stood up, pulling Stark along with him. Stark grunted in surprise but allowed himself to be brought to his feet, hand immediately reaching for the edge of the bar. 

“I better find my brother and get him to bed,” Loki said. He pulled his hair from its ponytail and placed the shoelace next to Stark’s fingers on the counter. “Thanks again for the company, Stark.”

“Just call me Tony,” he said, shaking his head. “We’re friends now, right?”

Loki smirked. “Almost.”

“Tough crowd,” Stark muttered, but clapped Loki on the shoulder anyway. “Tell Thor it was a pleasure meeting him. I’ll see you two around, alright?”

Loki nodded, then turned and scanned the room for Thor. He found him half-asleep beside Barton, Romanoff, and Valkyrie, who were all trying to peel him from where he sat slumped against the wall. Loki hurried to them, shooing them away as he hauled his brother up with one arm and carried him towards the exit. 

“Loki!” Stark called from behind him. Loki looked up. Stark was grinning brightly, his hands cupped around his mouth. “Goodnight!” he yelled.

Loki lugged Thor away and out of third-class, but not before waving a hand behind him, hoping Stark would see. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> adhhfjkdhfjkdsh uni is about to start pls pray for me T-T
> 
> Also I made a playlist for this fic agessss ago, should I drop the link?


	4. Act 1, Scene 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath

Loki had wanted Thor to go overboard with his drinking. He thought it would be funny, to quietly enable his brother and watch as their father grew hot with rage at the sight of him. It was the only reason he’d dragged him along that night.

He’d forgotten sentiment poisoned the heart just as greatly as liquor. 

It must, because here it was, urging him to gently cradle Thor in the hallway, hand planted on his forehead as he forced him to drink water. Thor was fully awake now, shaken when Loki had dragged him through the doorway and up the staircase. Together they’d huddled past the kitchens, the lower-class dorms, the dining hall, and finally towards the upper-class dorms, where their father was certainly waiting for them, like a dragon in a cave. 

“You need to sober up, Thor,” Loki whispered, his hand moving from Thor’s forehead to his hair. It was greasy, but that wasn’t enough to stop him from carding his fingers through it, detangling any knots as he went. “I can pretend well enough, but you’re a mess and father will know.”

“Father will already know,” Thor groaned. “Besides, I thought you liked causing mayhem?”

“Do you ever think things through?” Loki hissed, pushing away the guilt invading his heart. “Father will know, yes, but he doesn’t need to know to what _extent_ \--”

Thor pulled him into a tight hug. Loki tensed, refusing to wrap his arms around him. Thor sniggered into his chest. He smelt terrible. “You’re a tricky bastard, aren’t you brother?” He pulled away, hands still gripping both sides of Loki’s arms. “Did you have fun tonight?”

Loki startled at the question. “Of course,” he answered, bewildered. 

Thor beamed. “Then there is no need to worry. I will talk to father.”

“No.”

Thor pushed Loki aside and got to his feet. 

“No, no, _no_ \--”

But Thor was already fumbling for the doorknob, still swaying on his feet. Loki didn’t bother stopping him, knew full well he couldn’t. So instead he curled up onto the ground and buried his face in his hands. He didn’t know what time it was, but he supposed it didn’t matter. In their father’s mind they were still sixteen, climbing down the balcony during one of their mother’s dinner parties and disappearing into the night. They’d done it before. Thor had taken him by the arm, sneaking him a few drinks as they passed guest after guest. Together they’d slipped down the side of the house, fingers clinging to brick and mortar as they dropped quietly into their mother’s garden. And speeding past roses and over the walls they’d raced into the sleeping neighbourhood, daring each other to go further, climb higher. Thor always had cider stuffed into his jacket. Loki had a lying tongue like no other. Hela continuously enabled them. Of course they’d done it countless times. 

Back home, there was a lake hidden a few miles from their house. Past the grounds and neighbouring streets, lying past a thicket of trees and into the undergrowth below. That was where they always went. The water was brown and gushed loudly, sweeping through the glade and roaring into the night sky. They never went during the day, could never escape their father’s absolute authority save those stolen moments. There they would drink however much they could get away with, swapping stories and watching the stars swing above them. Thor had confessed his first kiss there. Loki had laughed, watching his big brother go pink as he begged him not to tell anyone. Loki remembered those moments fondly, because they were from _before_. Thor had always been reckless, even overdramatic at times, but even so he did not wear arrogance well. It was an ugly, sordid thing on him. And yet it had come, as all things did when they were allowed to fester. 

Loki dug his heels into his eyes. This wasn’t going to be pleasant. 

The door opened. Loki sat up quickly, thinking for one golden, miraculous moment that Thor had decided to back down and come back. But when he twisted around, he saw it was only Hela, rubbing her eyes as she closed the door quietly behind her. She was in her nightgown, her hair pulled into a low ponytail.

Loki collapsed back onto the ground.

“Come on, I know you favour Thor but seeing me can’t be all that bad,” she said with a huff, sitting down beside him and pulling her knees to her chest. 

“I don’t favour Thor,” Loki grumbled, staring at the ceiling. He threw his arms up. 

“Don’t be silly, brother. Come here.” She patted her knee.

“You’re not my mother,” he said, but shuffled over to her anyway. She gently placed his cheek on her thigh. His head spun. 

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered. “You’re still such a child. Thor too.”

He let out a whine but said nothing more. She ran her fingers through his hair, much like he had done for Thor only moments earlier. He sighed. The gentleness came from their mother, he knew that. The three of them weren’t meek, or soft, or even kind people, but they could never erase the fact that they were raised by an angel. She used to pet them when they were distressed, singing to them and doting on them whenever she could. She was especially sweet on him, her youngest. Loki closed his eyes, hand clutching his necklace. She didn’t have to, he thought pathetically. She really didn’t have to. Then again, maybe that was the whole reason why she was. 

He resisted the urge to rock back and forth to soothe himself, instead focusing on Hela’s hands, her steady breathing. In these fractured moments she was so much like their mother, Loki could almost pretend. Almost. But it was pointless. Hela’s nails were too hard on his scalp, her palms rough and coarse and edging closer to pain than tenderness. She could never be wholly good, none of them could.

He heard a loud bang from inside their suite. Someone had hit the wall. Then he heard his father yell, his voice distant yet terrifying. “This is disgraceful behaviour, my son. You vile, _shameless_ boy!”

“I’m an adult, father. I can take care of myself and I can certainly take care of my brother. I am more than worthy,” Thor said coolly. Loki shuddered. He was so _stupid._ Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

Their father did not calm. “It’s always Loki, isn’t it? All these years it’s _always been_ \--”

“Don’t you start blaming him! I’m capable of making my own choices!” Thor roared.

Then their father struck him. Loki didn’t have to see to know. The sound was deafening and final, like a plate had been thrown. All the words were knocked from Thor’s mouth, every sentence, every rebuttal. All defiance torn away in an instant. 

“You’re meant to obey me,” their father hissed. “You cannot defy me in favour of your childish whims. Do you understand?”

Thor said nothing. 

Their father continued, his previous screaming growing cold. “You’re married now, my son. You represent the family. Consider your brother. You need to light the way for him. He needs to know his place.” 

Loki wanted to hurl himself into the room and slit his father’s throat. It was a vicious, animal urge he immediately fought to suppress. In his head he repeated a mantra, a desperate plea for his own sanity, and his wilting heart: _my father loves me, my father loves me, my father loves me._ He needed to remember. 

“But what is the point of living if we are denied freedom? If we cannot laugh?” Thor sounded empty, Loki thought dimly. And drunk. And so horribly tired. 

Loki heard the bed creak. Their father had sat down. Loki imagined he was holding his head in his hands. “I do not understand why you would yearn for such things. You have everything you’ve ever wanted.”

“No I don’t,” Thor spat. “All I want is for Loki to be happy.”

Loki turned the blade from his father to Thor in an instant. In his mind he was cutting away at him, screaming as he forced him to the ground. And over and over he was howling _how dare you,_ his teeth savage and digging into his tongue. More animal than man. And it would have been well deserved, he thought. Thor could take it. Maybe he’d even fight back. He had once, back in the days when he was a bloodhound, powerful and dreadful and entirely unreasonable. Almost as bad as Hela had been when she’d first come of age. The difference was that Thor was brusque and wild, Hela deadly and cruel. Both equally devoted to their father. 

When Thor turned eighteen, they stopped sneaking out of the house. Loki went to the lake alone, Thor moved out of their shared bedroom, and Loki watched his father smile, pride shining in his old, weary eyes. At first Loki did nothing. He read his books, redecorated his room, spoke with his mother. But the days grew colder, and Loki felt himself rotting in the corners of that tiny room, hiding in the shadows as mice scurried around his ankles. So he did what anyone would do. 

He set the room on fire. 

And when Thor asked him _why_ , his voice choked as they evacuated all the staff from the mansion, Loki had laughed.

He laughed because if he hadn’t, he would’ve cried. He never did figure out how to tell him he just wanted his brother to look at him. The words kept slipping before he could speak. 

So instead Loki had grinned and taunted until Thor pushed him over. Loki kicked. Thor resisted. Loki slapped and pinched and bit. Thor told him to _know his place._ Then he grabbed Loki by the shoulders and threw him to the ground. One foot on his chest. 

They didn’t fight again after that. Thor didn’t lay a finger on him. He didn’t need to. Enough was enough. Thor had flown away. 

And all he wanted was for Loki to be happy.

Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. 

“Allowing your brother to surround himself with lower-class harlots will do nothing for his happiness,” their father said finally. Typical. “But it is of little consequence now. He will soon be married, and this childishness will end. I look forward to that day. I’ll finally be able to rest.”

Above him, Hela sighed. “There’s no rest for the wicked.”

She didn’t breathe another word until the conversation inside had noticeably calmed down. They heard Thor open and close the door to their father’s room, his footsteps disappearing down the hall and towards his own chambers. She let out a low whistle. “Don’t worry, the first marriage is always the hardest. Damn bastard only cares about himself. You’re barely more than a kid.”

Loki didn’t look at her. “I’m an adult Hela. I don’t mean to shock you dear, but I’ve been an adult for a long time.”

“No, you’re my kid brother. Doesn’t matter how old you are, you’ll always be a baby to me.” She snaked a hand around his shoulder and dipped her head closer to his ear. “You’re a dangerous little thing, brother. You realise there are ways out of this arrangement, do you not? Thor would never succumb to treachery but you--”

“The proposal is not as distasteful for me as you think, Hela. It’s an advantage for our family.”

He glanced at her and was met with a grin as sharp and as white as cuttlebone; a raw, primal thing. “Oh Loki, you’re an excellent liar.”

“I know.”

… 

The anger faded quickly, but that was just how rage was. It burned and lost fuel so rapidly it was like it never existed at all. By the time it bowed its ugly head Loki already felt hollowed out. There was nothing inside him, nothing at all. And it was all so heavy he thought Thor’s foot must be pressed against his chest again. Testing the weight. Ready to break his ribs. It was less reality and more curiosity. If Thor crushed him like an insect, then the headache splitting his skull would stop, right? Simple cause and effect. Nothing more. 

He closed his eyes and imagined going down to the decks again. Hanging from the stern. Maybe the remnants of the alcohol in his system would force him down the side. Would Stark catch him again? 

_I’ve got you. I’ve got you._ The words echoed in his head. 

Loki sat up and sped through the ship, his feet barely touching the ground. It was like flying, how fast he twisted down every corridor, impatiently slamming his hand down the lever in the elevator. Until he finally burst out the doors and stumbled towards the edge of the ship, gulping lungfuls of stilted, frigid air.

Distantly, he thought he shouldn’t be doing this. But he could barely hear himself. Buried under layers of boredom and anger and a desperate need to fly away lay his heart, pounding in his chest so erratically he thought he’d break. Any thought of Stark, or his earlier calmness, or his smiling for Thor’s laughter, his light, was swept away into nothingness. It fell through his fingers like sand. He ripped through his hair. He was going in circles, a perpetual loop. Up and down and around and back again. Always ending here, near the end of everything. The end of the world. 

A hand landed on his shoulder. “Loki…”

He placed his hand on top of hers. Sigyn squeezed tighter, creeping closer to his side. “Are you alright?” she whispered. She sounded terribly genuine. Tentative, almost. Like she was approaching something rabid. 

“I’m okay,” he said softly. He didn’t look at her. 

“I’m sorry,” she said after a long moment. She pulled her hand away and walked a step ahead of him, resting her elbows against the railing. A jacket was thrown over her shoulders, her nightgown long and billowing. It shone in the blackness, the colours stark and sickly to the eye. Like a waning moon, or a ghost. 

His own hands found the railing beside her. “For what?” he asked, lost. 

“I was meant to spend the night with you,” she answered. “I didn’t.”

Loki was tired, he realised. Beyond all hysteria and upset. He was tired. “I was the one who left you,” he said, turning to look at her. 

Her eyes burned gold. “You don’t want to marry me, do you?” 

Loki always lied. He couldn’t help himself. He wrapped himself in lies like they alone could keep him safe. A security blanket. But here in the darkness, stranded in some unknown place where the world dropped its relentless eyes, Loki couldn’t help but tell the truth. “No, I don’t.” 

Sigyn smiled. “We’re the same, then.”

His laughter started small. Just an acknowledgement of the hopelessness of it all, a near-silent, suffocating thing. Then it became exasperated in his throat. He stared up at the sky. It was empty. Every star from before stolen away. “What am I doing?” 

“What anyone would do. Trying to find freedom when it’s …” she shook her head, sneaking a hand inside the pocket of her jacket.

“I know,” he said simply, but she didn’t seem to be listening.

She pulled out a cigarette. 

Loki stared at it dumbly.

“You wanna share this?”

Stark came to mind in an instant. Stark and his iron cigarette box, his easy smile, his dark, vacant eyes. Scars he didn’t want to talk about obscuring his hands, his whole body. 

Loki wondered if he was dreaming.

Stark and Sigyn were both strangers, he thought to himself, two unknown, unquantifiable entities. When either one of them spoke it was to a different tune, an irregular melody. And yet here they were in his mind, side by side and offering him some quiet, false freedom. From himself or from the world, Loki wasn’t sure. 

He wondered then how some things could be different yet the same, how someone could sweep into his life and change everything and yet nothing at all. 

Maybe it was not for him to know. 

He nodded and she slid it into his mouth. She took out a match and flicked it. Once, twice. There.

The flame cast a broken light over Sigyn’s face. It held her, made her look warm yet sallow, and all too young. Loki wished he could help her, the same way he selfishly wished someone would help him. He caught sight of the snake ring again, its black eyes thrown into red firelight. As he inhaled smoke, he imagined it writhing and leaping out towards him, sinking its fangs into his wrist as he crumpled to his knees. Maybe it would grow huge, a python wrapping itself around them both and squeezing.

He passed the cigarette over to her, like a vow. 

She breathed in and out, her own smoke pouring out into the open air. “If we lived in a perfect world,” she whispered, her words slurred and hesitant, “I’d marry your sister and you’d marry that handsome mechanic of yours.” 

Loki gaped at her. “Why in the world would you tell me that?” he stuttered. He would’ve never told anyone, even if he were all alone in the world. He simply wouldn’t take that chance. 

Sigyn passed the cigarette over to him again. “Because I saw how you looked at him.”

Loki ignored her. “She’s bad for you angel,” he said instead, flicking ash into the sea. 

She leaned against his side and said nothing. They watched the sun creep over the horizon, white light piercing through the smog and spreading across the water. Wind cut through them, icy as dawn wrapped them in mist. Sigyn shivered against him, and Loki slid his arm around her and pulled her close, if only to find comfort for himself.

And in that moment, he swore they could’ve passed as lovers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap on Act 1! Consider this an intermission lmao


	5. Act 2, Scene 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki faces his family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A gentle reminder to heed tag warnings. There's nothing explicit here but Loki is mildly suicidal and his family dynamic is toxic as hell. Odin is manipulative and the worst dad, but we knew that already. 
> 
> Happy reading!

When Loki woke up, all he saw was white. Blinding, sharp white ripping through his vision. He groaned loudly and threw an arm over his eyes. Why was it so bright? Why did the sun exist at all? 

A knock rattled through his room. 

He slammed his face into his pillows. It was too early to deal with anyone, he decided. It didn’t matter if God himself appeared to him; Loki would not answer. 

“Can I come in, brother?”

Thor. 

“I don’t know, can you?”

Silence. Loki chuckled.

The door creaked open. 

“I can,” Thor said triumphantly. Loki could hear the smile on his face. 

He tossed a pillow at him. “Bastard.” 

Thor caught it easily. “You sound terrible.”

Loki sat up, cheeks hot. “You _look_ terrible.”

Thor frowned, holding the pillow close to his chest. “I just showered.”

Loki wrapped his arms around his knees, glaring at his brother’s still-dripping hair. He looked far too clean for how drunk he was last night, and for how wrecked Loki still felt. And he smelt like soap, his shirt an off-white. No trace of a slap on his cheek. No sign of any emptiness or despair. 

Somehow, Loki’s headache worsened at the sight of him.

“I didn’t know you bathed,” he said, trying and failing to stop his voice from sounding hoarse.

Thor grinned. “And I didn’t know you knew what bathing was. Your hair hasn’t seen water in a million years.”

“ _Hey,_ ” Loki whined, tucking a loose piece behind his ear. It was sweaty and tangled and in desperate need of a wash, he knew that. He scowled and carefully rolled off of bed, weary of his pounding head and sore legs. Thor rushed to his side, an all-too gentle hand on his back as he guided Loki to the bathroom. Loki leaned against him, blinking slowly as his stomach churned. Everything looked disjointed. Oak furnishings blurred against the red wine of his carpet, the smoothness of his walls gripping his bedpost, his chairs. And together they all flooded his vision, the colours mixing over and over. He blinked again. 

Thor took him to the sink. 

“I don’t need your help,” Loki hissed, pushing Thor aside. But the movement made acid drip from the back of his throat and before he could process what was happening his head was hanging over the faucet, vomit rushing from his mouth.

Thor held his hair back. 

And all Loki could do was try to kick him in the shin, tugging and pulling away from a grasp he knew he needed, but only ever seemed to burn him. 

Thor let out a sigh and gently patted Loki’s back until he calmed, patience limitless as he stood by his brother’s side, watching him heave into the sink for several long minutes. And when his gagging stopped, he passed him a towel and took him back to bed, like it was nothing.

Loki twisted himself back into his sheets as Thor thankfully closed the blinds. When he sat back down, he didn’t touch him, but stayed near anyway, his eyes soft. 

“What’re you doing here, Thor?” Loki said, his voice odd even to himself. 

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“That’s new.” Bitter. He sounded bitter. He didn’t want Thor to hear it but knew he heard anyway. 

“Loki--” 

Loki inhaled sharply. Thor sounded careful, gentle, maybe even a little strained. He could barely stand to hear it. Couldn’t make himself look his brother in the eye when he sounded like that. So he turned his back to him, stubbornly staring at the window instead, where pinpricks of sunlight still shone through. He wouldn’t look. 

“I told you talking to father would be a mistake,” Loki said, relishing in how Thor’s terrible voice shrivelled and died before any more words could slip out. Good. No need for sentiment or worthless apologies. He didn’t care. 

“I don’t think I made a mistake.”

Loki scrunched his face. “He hit you.”

“Don’t care.” 

Thor said it with a laugh in his voice. Like he could bare his chest to the world, hands out, palms open, and let himself be hit a thousand times over, and still, he would laugh. 

Loki pulled the sheets closer to himself, still refusing to look at him. “You should, Thor.”

He came a little closer. “But I don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because everything I told him was true.”

“You’re an idiot,” Loki said through clenched teeth. The room, shrouded in a careful, solemn darkness, seemed to shrink in on him. Like hands closing in on something. Too comfortable and warm. Thor was too close.

“I know.”

Loki could say something now. Could try and talk, for once. Maybe he could reach Thor. He was so close. Maybe he’d listen. He just needed to turn over and _look_ at him. Seize his hands and tell him everything he couldn’t before. Things he never knew how to say. Clumsy, awful words could pour from his mouth, like they were down by the lake, or locked away in the room Loki had burned. What if he took the chance? 

He thought of Stark’s Bruce Banner. How he was anxious and scared and _tired_ all the damn time. Lost to the world. What made him that way? What made anyone that way? Loki tucked the sheet under his chin, drowned himself in the smell of his own sweat and bile and grease. 

Everyone was lost to the world, that’s what happens. That’s what life was all about. Wandering aimlessly forever until you finally, tentatively, reach all five fingers _out._

“You should do what you want, Loki.”

But it could never happen.

“Stop.”

Not for him.

“ _Please--_ ”

Not for them. 

“ _Stop._ ”

Never for them.

“I mean it. Don’t let anyone hold you back,” Thor was talking quickly, his hand landing heavy and large on Loki’s shoulder, “and don’t let anyone make you think choosing happiness is a mistake because it isn’t--”

“I think you should go, Thor.”

Silence hung thick and cold between them, but Thor’s hand _burned_. Like a branding. Like the shape of his palm would forever be imprinted across Loki’s back the minute he let go. He wanted him to let go. Needed him to let go. 

But Thor only tightened his grip. “I know what father thinks is important to you. And I know how much his approval means. Believe me I understand, I’ve been there—”

“You _don’t_ understand. Now please just drop it.” 

“I do! No one will ever understand more than I do. That’s why I’m begging you, don’t waste your life with this! It hit me yesterday that that’s a real possibility and I can’t let that happen.”

“I don’t need father’s attention Thor,” Loki spat, shivering as he pulled his sheet taut, “and I don’t need _you_ either. So stop acting like you somehow understand me and that you give a shit, because I know you don’t.”

He knew these were all the wrong words. This wasn’t what he was meant to say. This wasn’t what was meant to happen. He needed to stop lying. Why couldn’t he stop lying? He screamed at himself to stop, a distant wailing in the back of his head that grew weaker with every malicious inhale of breath, and every bad thing he said. 

“You think you’re a hero? That you can come flying down to save me? You’re pathetic, Thor. You’re so _useless._ Even if I did need you, you wouldn’t be able to do anything right. You’re nothing to me and every minute I spend with you is a minute wasted. I will _never_ need you. I never did and I never will. Now. Get. Out. Of. My. Room.”

The hand disappeared.

“Okay.”

Then Thor left. No more words, not one bitter thing left to say. He simply opened the door and left, closing it softly behind him. 

He didn’t yell. 

He didn’t keep begging. 

He didn’t even say goodbye. 

Gone was the vision of the Thor he’d seen last night, the man who so strongly reminded him of the boy Loki still held onto. The child who stole his father’s ciders and rode his bike through town to deliver the morning paper. His eyes blue and soothing, and his smile a snicker whenever the neighbours yelled after him, their dogs yapping and wagging their tails as he passed by. That little kid who always came home bruised and always smelled of coffee. 

His brother. 

That was the Thor of his childhood. 

Come and gone like the tide. 

Loki grit his teeth, eyes burning with unshed tears. 

He would not let them fall.

… 

Loki was only halfway done buttoning his shirt when someone came knocking again. He sighed, staring up at the ceiling as he uttered a small, “come in.”

This time his mother opened the door, and although Loki wasn’t facing her, he _knew_ the look she was giving him, could feel it as she calmly approached him, a soft hand settling on his spine.

He could only think of Thor when she spoke. “You haven’t dried your hair properly. You’ll get sick, dear.”

“It’ll dry on its own,” Loki muttered.

His mother ignored him, instead busying herself with the rest of his buttons. He let her without question. She was the only one who could. 

“Did Thor upset you?”

“No,” he lied. She always knew. His face must’ve given him away. He must look too pale, his eyes sunken and digging into his skull. No one shook him like Thor did. No one could, because no one else shared the space in his heart. Loki didn’t know how it happened, but his brother had found a way to pry his chest open and fit behind his lungs - a permanent fracture Loki could not repair. And so it didn’t matter if the hurt healed. If it scabbed over and disappeared completely. Thor went beyond that. And maybe one day Loki would forget. But one way or another, he’d be drawn back to the beginning. His heart would rewrite their story for the thousandth time, always searching for an answer he’d never get. 

And his mother knew him well enough to see it in his eyes. He didn’t need to say a word.

“He only tries to look out for you,” she said, stepping away to rifle through his drawers. 

“I don’t need him to do that.”

She laughed, pulling out a dark vest and handing it to him. “Sometimes it's not about what you need, but what you want.”

“I don’t want anything,” Loki mumbled, throwing the vest up and over his shoulders. 

“Don’t be silly,” she chided, “Everyone wants something. I’m sure if you didn’t want someone taking care of you, you wouldn’t let me spoil you.”

“Mother!”

She brought her hand to his cheek and brushed his hair away from his eyes. Her eyebrows drew together softly, her eyes sparkling as her thumb dragged against his cheekbone. “Don’t look so upset. Smile. You look so handsome when you smile.”

He did as she asked, a shy, affectionate smile spreading across his face as he leaned into her touch. She kissed the side of his head, smelling of apricots. “Beautiful boy.”

But when she pulled away her smile quickly vanished. Loki knew what she was going to say before she said it, could read it in the crease of her forehead, the stress pinching her jaw. 

“Your father is very upset with you,” she whispered. “Be patient with him. And listen to him for once.”

“I always listen to him.”

His mother rolled her eyes, and he could have laughed at how much she looked like him. “Tell that to the boys I raised.”

This time he did laugh, surprised at how light it sounded. His mother did too, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding him close to her.

“You have no idea how much your brother adores you,” she said against his shoulder. “When he was little, he always scolded Hela for bullying you. He was your knight before you could even walk. You were so close.”

Loki rested his chin atop her head. “That was a long time ago.”

She sniffled, pulling away and wiping hurriedly at her eyes. “It feels like only yesterday, to me.”

“I’m sorry mama,” he said, and he meant it. “Don’t cry.”

Maybe if he were younger, he would’ve been angry with her. That sounded like him. He used to get angry at everything. Never knew how to control it. But in that moment, as he watched his mother pull at her sleeves like a child, her hair grey and her back hunched as she clasped her hands to her chest, he could only wonder at how they got here. How it could be that time had hurt her too, and he’d never even noticed.

… 

Loki refused to look anyone in the eye as he approached his family that morning. They were sat at a table by a large window, bright sunlight cupping their faces as they piled their plates with food. Bread, spreadings, bacon and eggs, fruit. He pulled a chair out for his mother, sat down beside her, and then poured himself a cup of tea. Black, two sugars. He focused his attention on the ceramic plate sitting in front of him and buttered two slabs of bread. He watched the crumbs collect, licking the juncture between his thumb and forefinger as he cut himself two slices of orange, if only to distract himself with the smell. Orange and coffee were the two best smells in the world, in his opinion. Although he didn’t like coffee all that much. It did nothing for him, the taste making his eyes water and his nose scrunch up. Thor drank it religiously. He used to make it early in the morning, grinding the beans and boiling the water himself, the smell sticking to his clothes, his bedsheets, his bicycle. 

The knife in Loki’s hand slipped and he let out a small sound as he watched blood trickle and form branches across the tabletop. Red against white cloth. 

“Watch your grip and pay attention to your surroundings,” his father said, his tone clipped. 

Loki stiffened. His father was always indirect with him. Never said anything to his face until it was too late. He was meant to know what ‘too late’ looked like before it all came spilling out. And Loki did. He knew how to read his father better than Hela and even better than Thor. Loki didn’t need to listen to the sound of his voice or pull apart his phrasing. His face, unaffected and still, told him everything he needed to know.

His father was furious. 

“Why don’t we go for a walk.” It wasn’t a suggestion. “We can find something for your finger.”

 _Fuck_ , Loki thought shakily. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

But he nodded his assent. “I’d be happy to accompany you, father.”

They stood at the same time, eyes level and staring blankly at each other. Loki straightened and peered down at his feeble father, willing himself not to cower and, equally so, willing himself not to fight back. Hela didn’t look up from the newspaper she was pouring over. Thor sipped his coffee, eyes far away as he stared out into the open sea. Their mother clasped her hands to her chest again. 

And then they disappeared, leaving behind the smell of oranges and coffee as he and his father walked away.

His father was much shorter than his children, but it was of no comfort to Loki, no matter how much he reasoned with himself. His father had been tall to him once, when he was a child. That was the man Loki remembered, the man who sat him on his lap and told him stories as he smoked his cigar, purple smog filling his office with every exhale of breath. Taxidermy hung from the walls, their glassy eyes pinned to an image of a boy and his father. It was a fragmented memory. Loki liked to think Thor had been there too, perched on the floor and sitting close. But he hadn’t. It had just been Loki and their father in that dark, too-narrow office, Loki’s eyes wide and wondering as he listened to his father tell him about his adoption, his illegitimacy. He seemed so big then. Bigger than the room itself, and bigger than all the world. And Loki had felt so important when his father had told him he was needed in the family anyway, that Loki was necessary. Of course he was necessary. _Just as much as Thor_ , he’d told himself back then, tightly clutching his necklace. _Always as much as Thor._

“I’m proud of you,” his father said suddenly as they stepped outside, turning onto the deck.

“I beg your pardon?” Loki stuttered, feeling the hair rise on his arms. His father’s words were intoxicating. He dared to hope for more, to wonder if he’d ever be given this much again. He needed it. God, he needed it.

His father continued unflinchingly. “I’m proud to call you my son. You and Sigyn make a fine match.”

Loki forced himself to look ahead, to keep walking forward. His father wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t wrong at all. Still, the affirmation made him uneasy. Even outside, everything seemed just as small as that office had been. There was no room to breathe. No room to think. Before, he’d come here alone. It was here he’d been able to try and touch the ocean, the sky. To let himself be wild, if only for a moment. A cigarette in his mouth and someone by his side to share it. First Stark, then Sigyn, their shapeless forms leaning against the railing as said and unsaid confessions lingered in the space between them. 

“Loki, you can’t waste time playing games anymore. I know your brother’s acquaintances amuse you, but you need to understand we live in a very different world from those people. Do you understand?”

Loki felt his attention slipping. He was always wasting time with silly games and silly vanities. He didn’t need his father to point that out. His desperate attempts to free himself from the pendulum, pain and boredom and back again, was enough of an indicator. 

Thor’s voice echoed in his head.

_I’m begging you, don’t waste your life with this!_

Thor was so fucking stupid. He didn’t understand a thing. He was cruel and worthless and dumb, and he didn’t understand a _thing._

“Yes father,” Loki mumbled, still thinking. 

_Believe me I understand._

The thoughts were like a rush of cold air. Like a flood. 

He wanted it to stop. 

He wanted to sleep. 

He wanted to stop thinking about Thor. Why couldn’t he ever stop thinking about Thor?

_Suicide? Loki you weren’t seriously-_

He wouldn’t call himself suicidal.

_Why did you climb over the ship’s stern?_

Not technically.

_Did you hope you’d fall? Did you think you’d fly?_

If only he could grow wings and fly away. If only he could keep flying forever. Up and up into the atmosphere. 

“Your duty will always be to your family, your wife, and eventually your children. That is what I expect of you.”

Loki nodded. There was nothing else for him to do, nowhere else he could go. He couldn’t escape from this, not this time.

_I really want to see you dance in third-class._

“Never go to third-class again,” his father said, overpowering the swarm of voices Loki couldn’t shake.

_Did you have fun tonight?_

Why had Thor cared?

How Loki felt didn’t matter.

“I won’t,” he affirmed. 

It didn’t matter at all. 

“Good,” his father said with his head held high, before turning away and leaving Loki alone again. He leaned against a wall, staring up at a sun more peach than gold, and thought and thought and thought. Memories of the night before swirled around him--disjointed voices, lost sensations. He sucked in a breath.

_I’m sorry._

_For what?_

_I don’t know. You seem sad. Hurt._

Stark had said he hadn’t known what he was sorry for, but he really _had_ known, hadn’t he? Sitting together and smelling of whiskey, Stark had seen him better than anyone had ever seen him in his life. And it had been simple. An acknowledgement. A small observation. 

Loki shook his head. He needed to stop wasting time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick heads up: updates might become a bit more sporadic from now on since uni decided to kick my ass :((( (help me-) The whole story is planned though and has been for ages, so I will be finishing it! I just don't have as much free time anymore which sucks cause writing this is super relaxing and has been a great way for me to practice. I'm very fond of it! 
> 
> Anyway! Thank you all for reading! You're all so lovely!! Hopefully I'll see you next week <33

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! <33


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